Silver Eyes
by SlayQueen16
Summary: Being wanted by the Templars was bad enough, but now she meets a certain arrogant Assassin during her attempt to get back home? What's next? (Lots of charisma, romance, and story)
1. Precarious Caution

**Story: Silver Eyes**

 **Chapter One: Precarious Caution**

A small shift of her wet wrists alerted her to the position her hands had been forced into by tight ropes. Her eyelids lifted slowly only to see the sand on the ground. She swallowed dryly, her mouth tasting dirty as she ran her tongue across chapped lips. No luck there. It's been far too long before she's had a proper drink of water, not to mention some solid food and proper movement with her limbs.

"Up, woman," a guard said gruffly.

"You know some hospitality would be nice," she mumbled into the ground. "I am technically a guest — a guest held against her will, but a guest nonetheless."

"Shut it," she heard rather viciously and then felt him yank her to her feet. "Just give me a reason to gag you. I will."

She rolled her eyes rather lazily, too tired and dehydrated to really make much of a fuss. She let herself get shoved forward, barely using her legs. Where she was going wasn't a pleasant place to be forced down to. It was dark, barely any light shown through the cracks and crevices at the ceiling; and water dripped steadily, wetting her face and hair. She tried to ignore it as best as possible. She wanted to keep up her brave face and shove down the fear of approaching deeper into an enclosed space that held no escape.

"I want the woman," she heard Robert de Sablé say as his hand outstretched for her.

"Could at least take me out to dinner first," she grumbled under her breath. "Ow!" she exclaimed softly when she felt the guard smack her in the back of the head. He then shoved her forward.

She felt Sablé's hand grasp the nape of her neck, pushing her forward uncomfortably. With another shove to her back she was the leader in this potentially very dangerous cave. But she knew why it had to be her — she was the one who knew exactly what they were looking for was. But it wasn't that bad, she reasoned with herself, after all Sablé was right behind her and could do well to defend her in this shackled state.

"Well, which way is it?" he demanded from behind her.

"Straight," she said, irritation seeping in her tone. She didn't appreciate this rough treatment especially over the course of six months and was starting to get sick of it. "I'll tell you when we turn."

"Mind your tone," he said rather viciously.

She rolled her eyes irritably as they pushed her onward. Her legs felt like lead, both fat and muscle mass had shrunk considerably over the course of her stay. Even if she somehow miraculously gotten free she wouldn't run for long. That was probably their line of thinking. After all, she longed for food and water, growing moodier by the minute.

"Left," she grumbled.

They hung a left and she could feel that they were getting closer. Probably just a few feet away actually, now that she thought about it. It made her worry the inside of her cheek in anticipation. Then, somehow, she'd have to convince them that she was worth keeping alive. She had a few ideas that would mostly likely stick, but her credibility with them wasn't exactly stellar.

Nonetheless they arrived. Before she could even open her mouth to tell Sablé where this treasure was he shoved her into one of the guards to get to it. She grunted softly. The guard's chest she slammed into reflexively grabbed her arms to steady her. She looked up at his helmeted face and wiggled her brows at him amusedly. She didn't see the expression on his face, but she assumed it was one of disgust since he shoved her to the floor with a scoff.

"Wow, what a real gentlemen," she said under her breath, getting into a more comfortable position on the ground.

"Can we kill her yet?" the same guard asked. "She is of no use to us anymore."

She tried not to stiffen in fright, toes curling in her sandals, fingers digging into the sand below her — the whole nine yards. But she really couldn't help it. Who wanted to die especially when for the last few moments she was treated like a prisoner on death row? She wanted to live again.

"No," he said. "There surely must be more of these." he turned his head snappily towards her. "Right?"

"Yes," she said slowly, thrown by the sudden interest and the scary look on his face.

"Excellent," he said, admiring his precious with a huge smile across his face.

Well, today wasn't the day she died it seemed. She still had some sort of leverage over them.

But suddenly, her survival wasn't looking so hot when a hooded man killed two of the guards behind Sablé silently. She knew it happened, though, because he was in her line of sight, unlike the others. And for the life of her she couldn't keep the gasp at bay, letting Sablé know that someone was trying to kill him. So the bald man blocked the assault of his would be killer.

"Foolish child," he insulted, "you think you can sneak up on me and steal what's rightfully mine?"

"Rightfully yours?" he said, arrogance still seeping in his tone as if he was the one in control.

"Yes," Sablé said, tossing the shorter man out into a rock face that crumbled away easily. The man was most likely crushed by boulders and he was dead.

But the prisoner's eyes were locked onto only one thing: the skirmish between several other hooded men and the guards. A sword had flown out of one of their hands, stabbing the ground right in front of her. The blade wavered harshly, frightening her quite a bit for a moment, but then it… gave her an idea.

"Hell yeah," she breathed.

She forced herself up, pulling at the dirt to give her the strength to sit up with her hands bound. She placed the rope against the blade, rubbing it furiously.

Almost, almost, and… there!

The ropes snapped free.

It allowed her to yank them off and for her to make her escape without any hindrances. And boy did she want to get out of there. She scrambled to her feet and looked around desperately. The guards and Robert de Sablé that were fighting the hooded men were blocking the way she came in, and the exit the dumbass that tried to kill Sablé was completely blocked off. The only method of escape was the way the assassin's came in. Up a ladder.

"Dammit," she whined before forcing her legs to sprint over there.

"Wait! We're here to help you!" a short man said. She looked over briefly to see if he was close enough to restrain her. But this wasn't wise. His distraction lead to his arm being brutally chopped off. "Argggh!" he cried out in pain.

She winced, looking away quickly; it was too brutal.

With what little strength she had left in her muscles she began to climb up the ladder. Her limbs were burning, being pushed to their limits, and making her cry out in agony. But it was this or be captured and killed by either the Templars or the Assassins. She knew what her choice was: push her limits to escape.

She rolled over painfully on her side. She gasped for breath, fighting for it, and trying not to blackout. Her stamina, and muscles were pathetic these days. She hated herself for it, but there was little she could do about it now. All she could do was push forward.

"Yes, I'll go with Robert de Sablé. It's not like I have a choice; it's either him or death," she said sardonically. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Suddenly, a few rocks from the cave below Solomon's Temple fell and hit her painfully. She grunted and jolted from the pain.

"I got a rock stuck in my leg," she deadpanned.

She sat up, slowly getting to her feet, and grunting at the pain emanating in a horrible throb throughout her entire body. Her body was screaming at her to eat and drink something, and to rest for at least two weeks. But sometimes she couldn't always comply with what her body needed right away. It was escape for survival, or she'd be kept prisoner or killed. Sometimes, pushing yourself to the limits was necessary apparently.

She walked along the cave, hugging the wall for support. Her legs were beginning to shake. It seemed her body could only endure so much before giving out, but she was going to keep pushing until she was safe. She idly hoped that adrenaline did its thing and saved her butt from surely dying in a cave. She knew she wasn't going to go out like this.

She approached the growing light at the end of the tunnel before finally reaching it. The opening lead to a mildly busy street filled with people she had no idea worked for whom. Her delusional, exhaustion induced, brain went into panic mode. She started spinning around and around looking for something, anything to help her. That was until her sandal clad foot came across some hay, causing her to collapse into a giant bail of it.

"Drunk idiot," some woman commented.

Before a snide comment could even make its way out of her lips she was out like a light.

X

"Altaïr," Al Mualim acknowledged.

He turned from his personal library towards his prized pupil. He looked him over skeptically. He didn't see Malik, Kadar, or the Ark of the Covenant with Altaïr. But since the man in front of him was the best of his students surely he succeeded.

"Master," Altaïr said.

"I trust you were successful," he said.

"Robert de Sablé had more men than we expected."

It was clear Altaïr was dancing around the subject. He loathed to admit that he failed. He was the best assassin in the order, and the youngest to rise to the rank of master assassin so far. Did the success and accomplishments go straight to his head? Hell yes. But not only that, Altaïr didn't want to know what would come of him if told his master he failed.

"Well, these things are never easy," Al Mualim said. "Did you recover the artifact?"

"No, I didn't."

Al Mualim's face went from hopeful and stony to extreme anger and disappointment quickly. It seemed Altaïr was right. The man didn't handle failure well. It didn't surprise him, but Altaïr was confident that as his master's favorite pupil he'd be fine. After all, he was an important asset to the Brotherhood.

"What about Robert and the woman?"

"Escaped."

"I send you," he said angrily, "my most skilled man on the most important mission thus far and you bring back nothing but failure and excuses!"

"I—"

"Do not speak!"

He refrained from rolling his eyes at his mentor. Even if he was indeed an arrogant son of a bitch he had a certain level of fear and respect for the elderly man. Or maybe it was the way he was raised. No one raised their voice at the mentor because the mentor will make an example out of them. No "betrayal" among the ranks.

"I'll have to rally more men."

"I swear I'll—"

"You will do nothing!" he snapped. After a pause he asked. "Where is Malik and Kadar?"

"Dead."

Just then Malik showed up, proving how wrong Altaïr is. He was clutching his arm which was bleeding profusely and looked as if he couldn't move it. What little of its attachment left would probably be flapping in the wind if not for how hard Malik was clutching it. The look on his face spoke volumes: he was angry, mourning, and was in deep pain. He hated Altaïr with all his heart. He blamed him for this and he wouldn't be wrong to hate him. If Altaïr had followed the rules none of this would be happening.

"He's lying!" he panted hard. "I'm still live!"

"And Kadar?" Al Mualim asked, assessing the man.

"Killed," he said and then pointed at Altaïr. "Because of you!"

"Sablé threw me from the roof," Altaïr defended. "I couldn't get back to you."

That didn't stave off Malik's anger one bit. His excuses were falling on deaf ears, refusing to accept anything from Altaïr including an apology. He hoped Al Mualim would make an example of the supposed golden boy of their order. It would be a fitting punishment in his mind. One life for another.

"Excuses!" Malik exclaimed. "You broke all three tenets of our creed! If you had heeded my warning my brother might still be alive!" he then turned towards Al Mualim. "I have what your favored failed to bring."

"The treasure? The woman?"

In walked another man dressed head to toe in white clothing to fend off the heat with the ark of the covenant resting on a nice platform. He placed the treasure upon Al Mualim's desk before exiting the room without a word.

The elderly man's eyes didn't leave the ark's center piece. It was intact and that was all he cared for. Not the priceless tablets with the written Ten Commandments that people have been searching for for a about a thousand years. But before he got his hands on it one of his men said:

"Al Mualim! Sablé and his men are invading!" he shouted. "They want to take Masyaf and its village!"

"So, he seeks a battle, eh?" Al Mualim said. "Then so be it. I won't deny him this. Go, the fortress must be prepared!" when the informer left, the elderly man addressed his pupil. "Altaïr, you and I will talk later. Go and destroy these invaders. Just… get out of my sight!"

He did what he was told for once. He left the lovely fortress that was lined with men guarding the place. But now? Those men were scrambling outside the fortress with their fellow Assassins. Altaïr stepped out, looking around the area, and assessed the damage. Citizens and Assassins alike were running everywhere.

"Retreat!" he heard Abbas shout. "Everyone fall back! Close the gate!"

Curiously, he looked and saw that his fellow Assassins were indeed retreating from incoming Templars. For a moment, he didn't know what to do with himself. If they were coming back to the fortress what's he to do now? He was fantastic at fighting not retreating.

"Altaïr! This way! Al Mualim is not done with us. Follow me and do as I say."

Up the latter he went and followed his fellow Assassin. He walked along the tallest tower seeing the other men along several planks of wood sticking out of the openings in the tower. He was told to stand at one of them, so he did.

"Heretics! You will give me back what's rightfully mine!" Robert de Sablé shouted.

He and his massive fleet of Templars were at the gate. Sablé looked greatly angered, almost to the point of spitting like a feral dog. It was rather amusing to Altaïr.

"You have no right to claim the treasure!" Al Mualim shouted back. "Leave before we thin your ranks even further."

"You play a dangerous game! I'll lay siege for as long as it takes! How long will your men last when the food runs out and your wells run dry?!"

"My men do not fear death! They welcome it and the rewards it brings!" Al Mualim said and then addressed his men. "Show those Templars what it is to have no fear. Go to God!"

Altaïr looked down from his platform at a haystack just below. The distance between him and that pile of hay was rather great. In fact, most rational people wouldn't jump unless they were at sword point. But this man put his faith in Al Mualim and his teachings. So he jumped. Not a stranger to the adrenaline rush he flipped properly midair and landed in the surprisingly soft yellowed grass. He was okay. Nothing was broken and he felt fine. All was good.

"Ow! My leg!"

"Quiet or the Templars will hear you."

The man outside his own haystack bit down hard on his lower lip to keep the noises of agony at bay while his bone was snapped back into place. Unnerved by bones moving underneath flesh, Altaïr walked over to his fellow Assassin (the one that didn't break his leg) for further instruction.

"Cross that cliff there, unleash the trap we set, and rain hell on our enemies. Do so quietly."

Without a word he crossed the wooden beam with his arms out and in a low crouch for balancing purposes. He did this until he came across a fortified tower right above and adjacent to the Templar fleet below. He, of course, scaled it rather easily from years and years worth of training and building muscle.

Once in the tower, he drew his sword and slashed at the wooden support plank. Therefore, he unleashed several large logs onto the Templars. The thick logs rolled along the men's bodies in piles. They screamed, were crushed, and fled.

With thousands dead the Templars fled.

X

Crippling thirst and hunger woke her up plain and simple. She clutched her stomach as she shook her head free from some of the hay from last night. Her eyes searched around the area. No longer was she in that stack of hay but a dwelling of some sort. She didn't recognize it. After all, the prisons she was usually foisted into were barely functioning and disgusting. No luxuries for the criminals, and barely useful captives it seemed. Thankfully, this place actually had stability and looked… homely. Like she would actually be fairly content to live in a place like this.

This room specifically seemed like it was actually made for someone around her age, and of her gender. It was a small bedroom with an old, twin sized bed (she was laying on currently); the colors, as few as they were, were rather bright and typically effeminate; and the few items along the trunk were a few bright bracelets, and some feathers. From appearances alone this was probably the family's daughter's room.

She began to walk around in confusion, looking for water and food, and immediately fell. A painful grunt escaped her, and her limbs wobbled dangerously. She didn't know if it was the poor circulation or if her muscles were blown out, either way she wasn't walking without some kind of assistance. And it seemed she would be getting some given that she heard footsteps along the dirt floor.

Out of habit, her muscles tightened in fear.

"Oh… oh dear!" she heard a woman's voice gasp. "Amal! Get in here! Our guest fell!"

Silver eyes looked up curiously, cautiously. But the woman in front of her, nearing middle age, wrinkling only portrayed worry. It confused her. After all, it's been quite some time since she'd seen a look like that directed towards her. A little shock was warranted on the young woman's part.

The middle-aged woman grasped her guest's thin, frail arm to lift the young woman. The younger of the two, of course, put up a weak, but insistent fight.

"Don't worry, deary, I'm not going to hurt you," the middle aged woman said, attempting to be soothing.

"Fariha," she heard a male voice call as he entered the room. "What are you— oh, just give her here."

Amal, with a sigh, went to the other side of the young woman, and he easily moved her to a sitting position on the rickety, twin bed against the wall. The silver eyed woman easily used the wall as a backrest to keep her upright. Sure, it was a much needed rest, but she was nowhere near rested enough. It seemed escaping these people was futile.

"Who are you?" she coughed painfully.

"We could ask you the same thing," Amal said gruffly. "We find you in our haystack all beat up like you went nine rounds with the Templars."

She flinched. That was uncomfortably true for her.

"Oh, don't pester the poor girl, Amal," his wife said chastised. "She's probably been through a lot."

"Yeah, what she said," the silver eyed woman said immediately.

"Fine, just thought you might want some food and water," he grumbled, heading towards the door, seemingly no longer interested. "I'll let you ladies figure it out then."

With that he was out of the room.

The silver eyed woman rolled her eyes and shrugged. She was quite used to sour treatment by now, and she was not okay with that. But it is what it is.

"Sorry about that, Amal really is a sweet man," she said. "He's just a little on… edge since our daughter left to be a dancer."

"He should drink. I hear that takes the edge off," she said with a small smirk.

Fariha laughed softly at the young woman. The feeling of someone laughing at her jokes, and her particular brand of humor. Of course, no one even cracked a smile back at the prison back at home or the one in the ship. Never did she get a single form of amusement from the other side of the bars. So hearing Fariha laugh was nice. It made her feel an eensy bit better.

"Not after last time," she said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. "I had to pull his butt out of a ditch."

The silver eyed woman giggled softly. She could picture it in her head: Amal wasted from a local bar, tripping, and falling down into a ditch.

Pretty funny stuff.

After that, little morning fiasco, Fariha and Amal gave her some helpful advice and sent her on her way. Apparently, it was a dead ringer that the silver eyed woman wasn't from around here. And it supposedly wasn't just her face that gave it away.

They told the young woman she needed to cover as much as her body to prevent sunburns and blisters. So they gave her their daughter's old wrap the other girl apparently hated. And that the closest food and water stands were south of their dwelling if she was hungry or thirsty. Which the silver eyed woman was.

In her line of sight she witnessed none other than a woman setting down her fresh water, presumably from the river she saw in the distance, to take care of her crying children. Like a hawk, Pyrrha swooped down and chugged the water as quickly as she could without choking. The water dropped due to her sloppiness and splashed onto her clothes, but she didn't care. Her mouth was no longer dry and sandy. But this short little moment of bliss didn't last for long. "Hey! Get out of my water!" the owner yelled, running after Pyrrha.

"Eep!" she squeaked, dropping the jug, shattering it across the dirt before she took off running from the woman.

She felt a tinge of guilt for taking and breaking this woman's water jug, but it was survival. If she didn't drink something she was surely going to die. In fact, it's been so long since she's had a proper drink her body was in shock at finally getting some. And the dizziness was beginning to subside, so she could run the short distance the other woman chased her.

She came to a stop, hands on her knees, panting harshly. She knew she probably looked like an insane homeless woman running from the authorities, but she could careless. She didn't know these people and she didn't plan on staying in this country for long. As soon as she found out how to get out of here she'd hitch a boat ride back to the homeland.

She straightened up when she saw none other than a man selling bread at his huge stand. Before she realized it her mouth started watering at the delicious smell of hot freshly made bread. Then she started drooling.

"Ugh," she grunted softly in disgust, wiping it away.

But despite this, she was still drawn to the bread. She gravitated towards the delicious aroma, checked to see if the vender was even looking, and then started stuffing her face like no tomorrow. If she vomited from eating too much then so be it because this bread was so good it should be illegal.

She hummed pleasantly as she kept stuffing her face while she also began storing them in her wrap. There were three half loafs sticking out of her mouth, and her wrap was filled to the brim with them.

But she stopped when she saw none other than a hooded man in white and the incredulous look on his face said that he was probably a saint or a priest. The clothes and colors gave him away.

"What?" she asked softly through a mouthful of bread and her wrap.

He didn't say anything, just a quirk of the lips for a response.

"You the bread police?" she teased.

She heard the vender man's voice dying down and realized she should probably hurry herself up if she didn't want to be beaten to death for thievery. She slipped by behind him, barely registering how much taller he was compared to her — at least a foot she'd say. Then she took off at a run, leaving this place behind in the dust.

Altaïr watched as she ran off. She was odd. She wasn't accompanied by anyone, had an offbeat sense of humor and personality, and had a colorful — albeit dirty — purplish dress. It was odd. That and she seemed kind of familiar. He didn't see her face or anything because of the wrap, but something about her said 'I've seen this person before'. He wondered…

"Hey! You stole my bread! You're gonna pay for this with your life!" the vendor yelled at him, yanking him right out of his thoughts.

He took off running, scaling the building as quickly as he could, avoiding stones thrown at him by said vendor and the guards that were called over. That was the last time he'd ever let strange women distract him again.

 **Author's Note: please review.**


	2. Alliance of Conveinance

**ThatGirl: I get what you mean, it's alright. :) I'm glad I've got your attention. Thank you for the review.**

 **Chapter Two: Alliance of Convenience**

She knew her reputation was dropping further and further in this city. How did she know that? Simple, the guards that were originally after that tall guy she put the blame on for the stolen bread were now after her too because wonderfully enough the woman she stole the water from set the guards on her as well. Karma is a bitch. And since she was kept hungry, thirsty, and barely alive in order to keep her from escaping from her Templar 'buddies'. Her muscles had shrunk along with her stamina and fat. So she was slowing down… quickly.

But that didn't seem to matter seeing as she body slammed into something hard and fleshy.

"Ugh!" the two of them grunted harshly.

She hit the ground hard. She grunted loudly, trying to regain her bearings. She'd already felt nauseous when running and now she'd ate dirt pretty hard. She knew she drank and ate too much, upsetting her stomach dearly. She feared vomiting. Her vision her was blurry and her stomach was lurching, so she clamped a hand over her mouth.

Suddenly, she saw a tan hand outstretched towards her. Slowly, she lifted her free hand and grasped his. He pulled her up to her feet easily. She wasn't too happy about it. Either this guy was super strong or she lost more weight than she thought. Or both. She didn't appreciate either.

And to make matters worse, she recognized him as the bread stand guy she'd blamed for stealing. Was he here to hurt her? Turn her into the authorities?

"Come on, let's go," he said.

She looked around her; both sides were flanked by guards coming after them.

"Sounds great in theory, but um…," she traveled, voice wavering in fear.

"Up," he supplied.

"What?" she exclaimed, giving him a weird look.

"You first," he said, pulling her forward.

She grunted in irritation as she was put up against the building's wall. She turned towards him with a deep glower. However, he was giving her an expectant look as if she should inherently know what to do.

She didn't know if it was an adrenaline rush or what, but her quivering muscles had her climbing up the wall. She used window ledges, grooves in the plaster, and other footholds alike to start scaling the building. She looked down and saw that he was right behind her and the only visible part of his face was his mouth and it was drawn into a tight line. From her experience from the Templars, she knew that wasn't a good sign.

"What are you looking at?" she said.

"No talking, keep climbing," he said.

Her shrunken hand shook almost violently as she tried to reach for the weird groove in the building to lift herself. Her entire body was shaking just the same, muscles threatening to give out or worse… tear. Not to mention she feared smacking to ground and breaking every bone in her body and dying. Her body wasn't exactly in the best condition at the moment. She'd break like bread.

"Hurry," he said.

"Um, does it look like I'm athletic?" she said. "Cut me a break why don't you." she panted, feeling a little dizzy.

"Get the rocks!" she heard one of the guards yell.

Suddenly, stones flew at the two of them. She stiffened considerably, sagging back in fear, as her limbs shook uncontrollably. She thought she was going to fall, truly crash down to the ground, and die. But suddenly, she felt a hand press against her backside, snapping her back to reality.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" she asked, narrowing her eyes down at him.

"Getting you to move," he said, words sounding a little different. Gruffer.

"Watch where you touch a lady…, pervert," she said.

Maybe she did have some energy left in her; she was making quips after all. Then again she always used humor as a means to an end.

Just as she hoped, she saw a vibrant blush spread and encroach to the only visible portion of his face: his lips and chin. She smirked as she kept pushing on, ignoring the fact that she was practically being shoved up the wall.

When half of her torso peaked over the top of the building she pulled herself up on violently shaking arms. She rolled on her back, panting for breath, thankful that this was a flat roof. She turned neck towards Altaïr lazily, offering him a weak hand. He took it just as one of the rocks hit his ankle dead on.

"Argh!" he grunted in pain.

"No, no, no," she said, holding tight with both hands quickly.

Just when she thought she couldn't hold on any longer she found her footing and climbed up in front. She did her best to accommodate for the space needed for him, but she backed up too quickly and her feet tripped over each other. Her lack of coordination caused her to fall and scream, taking him with her since they were holding hands after all. And down they fell, right into a building in the middle of construction.

She closed her eyes praying to any deity that would listen and take pity on her, hoping that she wouldn't die.

Suddenly, she felt something break her fall before she plopped into a few bales of hay. She grunted in mild pain. She shook her head, wanting to free it of this constant plague of hay she kept falling in. Then she noticed something a little odd: her hair easily whipped along her neck and face, confusing her deeply. Then she realized…

"Oh shit!" she cursed softly.

Her wrap that nice family gave her got lost in the in the fall. Her face was bare to the stranger that helped her scale the building. She wondered if he was even alive. For her sake, she hoped he was unconscious. But a low groan of pain from another few bales of hay answered her question real quick. When he emerged she turned away, searching for that wrap.

"You!" she heard. "Turn around."

She sighed in frustration and resignation. "I have a name you know," she said, turning to face him.

His knife was drawn, pointed right at her dirty throat. She eyed it wearily. She was threatened so much in the last week she just didn't have it in her to show proper fear anymore. But she was stiff as a board — a conditioned response she hated.

"You're that Templar girl," he said, knife inching closer to her.

She spat in his general direction, landing beside his boot. "Don't you ever call me one of those bastards! Ever!" she shouted, voice shaking with fury.

He was thrown by the almost psychotic look of pure, unadulterated rage on her face. He knew that no one could fake that level anger, so he stayed his blade. But for fear of her possible intentions, he used his eagle vision to see if she checked out. After a moment, her aura lit up in a vibrant blue, indicating that she was an ally.

"Here," he said, offering her a hand and after a moment's hesitation she took it. He lifted her up and then gave her his name. "Ismi Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (My name is Altair Ibn-La'Ahad)."

She gave him a small, relieving smile, obviously calmed down from her moment of severe anger. Giving her his name was a sign of trust and that gave her a moment's relaxation.

"Pyrrha Argyros," she said.

The name alone told him that she was of Greek origins. Not to mention her clothes and olive skin gave that away. Although, her facial features suggested that she wasn't 100% Greek. He couldn't quite put his tongue on it, but he didn't focus on that aspect of her for long. It was her eyes actually.

"You… have silver eyes," he commented, inching closer to her face.

"Uh… um," she said awkwardly, not enjoying the fact that the hooded man was of such close proximity. She could feel warmth radiating off him, and see the detailed lining of his chin and lips he was so close.

"Hey! I think they're in here!" they heard one of the guards call.

The two of them pulled back, reminded of the severity of the situation they're in, and looked around each other for a safe exit.

"Let's get out of here," she said, grabbing his wrist. "This way."

She pulled him along, ignoring the look of confusion and mild disdain from being dragged around by somebody. Oh well. She bent down to get under an unfinished exit point at the back of the building away from the sound of the guards. She kept her hand clamped on his wrist as she dragged him along, ignoring the unwillingness of her contact. She hugged the side of the building.

"Don't pull on my wrist. I'm not a child," he said. After a pause he continued. "I have a horse close by, so be quiet."

An idea came to mind.

"I'll do you one better," she said.

She looked back at his face and saw a look of fear in his eyes. She smirked before putting two of her fingers to her mouth and whistled so loud that it could wake the sleeping dead.

"Are you insane?" he said, lips pulled into a tight line.

Just as the guards rounded the corner an arabian trotted over to them. She wiggled her brows at him to tease as his face remained unreadable. Not her problem. She mounted the horse and looked down at his still stiffened form, presumably still shocked by her actions. It was just too easy to mock.

"You just going to stand there or you going to hop on?"

Considering the guards were nearing with their swords drawn, the choice was easy. He mounted the horse too, pushing her back. It was clear he 'needed' to be the leader. Pyrrha scoffed in irritation.

"Well alright then, giddy up," she grumbled, holding tight to his stomach.

He did as she said and they galloped through the guard, some getting trampled, and they got past them. She relaxed visibly and sank her head against his back, realizing just how tired she was. All stress and adrenaline was draining from her body since the danger was slipping away farther and farther and before she knew it she was out like a light….

Altaïr stopped the arabian near the base of Jerusalem. He knew Pyrrha was asleep. No one would lean that heavily on him while on horseback especially when they barely know each other. So he elbowed her lightly, calling her name to try and jar her awake, but to no avail she didn't make a move. He let out a small sigh. She was so troublesome.

He got off the horse and when she eventually slipped he caught her in his arms rather easily. She was far lighter than he thought. Then again her clothes were rather baggy and he could see just about every outline of her bones. She'd probably lost a lot of weight rather recently. The Templars probably starved her.

He put the thought aside and got into the base.

He set Pyrrha down against the blankets and pillows there. He noticed how she didn't stir even in the slightest and curiously put a finger against the side of her neck to feel for a pulse. It wasn't as strong as it should be, but it was still there. That was a relief.

"Really? Bringing women back here?" he heard Malik question sourly. "This isn't a brothel, novice."

"I know," he said, standing up and facing his peer. "But I owe her my life and I'm repaying the favor."

"Really? A frail, little woman saved your life?" Malik chuckled at him.

He ignored him. He'd gotten enough shit ever since he's been demoted for his actions at Solomon's Temple and was getting sick of it. He turned his head towards Pyrrha in favor. He couldn't help but wonder what the Templars wanted from her and what significance she had to them. If she was Robert de Sablé's type of woman then more power to him, but that clearly wasn't the case. She wouldn't have been treated so poorly, malnourished, or been dragged into Solomon's Temple. So what was her deal?

"Fallen for her already, Altaïr?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he said evenly. "She's the woman from Solomon's Temple. We have an advantage somehow over the Templars. That's all. So keep an eye on her while I'm gone."

…

Sunlight painted the back of her eyelids orange, irritating the eyes behind them. Reluctantly, Pyrrha opened her eyes, squinting and then shifting on her side to try and avoid the bright light. It wasn't possible, seeing as the ceiling was translucent. Unavoidable.

Then that was about when she realized that she had no clue where she was.

"Ah!" she gasped loudly sitting straight up.

"So you're finally awake?" she heard an unfamiliar male's voice say in general proximity, startling her quite a bit.

She turned around and saw someone she didn't recognize one bit and backed up, hitting her back against the array of pillows she was laying on. She groaned — body still sensitive and weaker than average from her time as a hostage.

"And who are you?" she sighed, burying her hands into her hair and forehead tiredly. She was sick of meeting shady strangers. She'd dealt with danger and entrapment way too often as of late to show any real fear of the stranger. She was too exhausted.

"Malik. I see that novice Altaïr's got a taste for the exotic fruit," he said, rolling his eyes, obviously not amused by her presence.

"Ha… gross," she said, narrowing her silver eyes at him briefly.

She lifted herself from the floor and stretched her aching muscles languidly. The tell tale pop, pop, pop was heard. She rolled her head, her shoulders, and her legs. A frown emerged on her face at the continual stiffness and the awful smell that clearly came from her. When's the last time she tended to any personal hygiene? She honestly couldn't remember. That surely wasn't healthy.

"You got a bathtub or a bucket of water?" she asked. "I could seriously use anything at this point."

"It seems he likes the mouthy women too," he said, eyeing her irritably as she approached his desk.

"Come on, don't make it sexual when it isn't," she sighed, leaning both her elbows and back against the desk top as she tossed her messy dirty hair back and out her face. "Unless you're jealous," she joked, wiggling her brows flirtatiously.

He groaned at her in pure annoyance, going back to his work one handedly.

"You sure you don't want some of this…? How did you put it? Ah, 'exotic fruit'?" she teased, throwing his own words back in his face as she gestured towards her own body playfully.

Malik slapped his hand against the desk in pure frustration as Pyrrha threw her head back in laughter. She was grating on his nerves especially at how she thought she was such a comedian. He didn't care what Altaïr said about her and her potential usefulness to the Brotherhood if she kept irritating him like this he… didn't know what he'd do. Missing an arm limited his options. Choking was out of the question.

"You know what? Take the door on your left down the hall that's where the bath is," he said, gesturing towards it in mild anger. "If I hear another word come out of your mouth I'm gonna go insane."

"Hmm, you already are," she teased, walking towards the hall.

He was going to strangle her and he'd find a way to do it one handedly.

Before she disappeared into the hall she said to him, "Thanks."

He deflated, letting out a sigh despite himself as he watched the new fly in his ointment disappear.

Just a few moments later Pyrrha was in the washroom, bare, and slowly sinking into the hot water in the metal bathtub by the fire. She moaned softly from the sheer pleasure of the hot water practically melting away the stress in her entire body. She swore she went boneless in the tub as she just enjoyed the welcomed warmth from both the fire and the water.

She might just stay in there all night.

In the other room, Malik was flipping through the pages of the log book, trying to stay calm. Lately, everything seemed to trigger him. And when he heard a creaking in the other room he was about to snap at Pyrrha since she was supposed to leave him alone, but no it was Altaïr. Good, he was someone who really deserved a verbal flailing.

"What are you doing back so early, novice?" he asked gruffly.

"Where's Pyrrha?" Altaïr asked, looking around the room.

"Lonely already?" he said rather bitterly. "If you want to take comfort in that Templar woman she's in the washroom."

He was indeed bitter. The grapes he'd tasted were extremely sour. After all, why was Altaïr the most skilled Assassin; had both fully functional arms; and even though he denied it, he had a woman? Altaïr was arrogant, broke every tenant in their creed, and yet Al Mualim gave him a second chance. Why? Because he was favored and more skilled than the rest of the Assassins. And Malik? What did he get? A dead brother and a chopped off arm. The world was cruel.

"She's not my woman," Altaïr scoffed. He couldn't really imagine anybody putting up with Pyrrha for the long haul.

"Oh, that picky are we?" Malik mocked scathingly.

Altaïr waved him off — done with the conversation. He walked towards the washroom and was about to open the door and ask his questions when he realized if she was in the washroom she'd probably be naked in the bathtub. After all, the last he saw of her before leaving and carrying out his mission she was really dirty. He cleared his head of that and knocked on the door.

There wasn't a response.

He almost rolled his eyes. Then he opened the door and entered the room just in time to see Pyrrha lift her head from under the water and flip her wet mass of brown hair back and out of her face. Her soapy bath water narrowly missed him when it hit the floor. Well…, that explained why she didn't answer him.

Despite himself he watched as she started wringing her hair into the water. He got a clear view of her bare back. He got to see each individual vertebrae of her spine against her, albeit cleaner but still bruised, olive skin. The Templars really did barely keep her alive. She'd have to gain that weight and muscle mass back otherwise she'd crumble the second she was hurt again.

"Ehem," he cleared his throat to get her attention.

She jumped in surprise, splashing water around her, from the unexpected noise. "Oh, it's you," she said before relaxing against the tub again as if she wasn't just interrupted.

His brows pulled together in confusion as to why she was so calm about it. Any time he was on a mission near a bathhouse or brothel any peeping toms he happened to see were immediately met with shrieks and items being thrown. Now, he'd like to say he wasn't a peeping tom even though what he was doing at the moment could be considered peeping. But the point was, Pyrrha just didn't care. The fact that someone, who wasn't her lover, was with her while nude. Not to mention, if he wanted, he could kill at any second at any moment.

"You're not bothered by my presence?" he asked, approaching her. "My life debt to you is payed. I could kill you right now."

"No, you're not," she said not bothering to open her eyes. "If you were going to kill me I'd be dead already. And you know that I was with the Templars for… quite some time and that I have ears, so I know some juicy secrets about them." she sighed softly, opening her eyes finally to see that usual covered face of his. She smirked softly and closed her eyes once more. "Now if you don't mind, hand me that piece of wool."

He grabbed the rough material and handed it to her olive hand. It seemed there was something more to Pyrrha than meets the eyes. Yes, she was strange. He didn't know if it was the culture or gender difference between that made it difficult to understand, or perhaps it was because they were both poor at communication. Either way, he was keeping her around for intel. But one thing at a time.

When she stepped out of the tub with her towel he turned away. Staring at her back was one thing. It wasn't sexual and he just wanted to know if she was physically healthy. But to see her fully nude when she wasn't his wife of lover was unacceptable.

"Hmm," she snorted in amusement. "I didn't peg you as the shy type."

"Just put on some clothes," he grumbled.

"Alright," she said, smiling amusedly, and wrapping her wet body in a towel.

"Now," he said, turning towards her again, "tell me all about—"

"Nope, not yet," Pyrrha said, holding up a bony finger to silence him. "I'm not saying a word about that until you do me a favor first."

"Oh this is rich," he snorted.

She was going to make demands or strike deals with him? The confidence, and the defiance were traits that baffled him especially from someone of her status and the torture that she most likely suffered at the hands of the Templars. This should be amusing.

"Teach me how to fight, so I can protect myself."

He gave her a look. Teach her how to fight? How was going to do that? She was tiny, short, and muscles practically non-existent. Not to mention she was a stranger, a woman, and not an Assassin. Besides all that, he was a terrible team player and struggled with the art of patience.

"Or I could just torture you for the information," he said. He moved in closer to try and intimidate her.

"Pft!" she scoffed. "Look at me. No really, take a good look at this bruised up peach of a body. There's no way in hell you're gonna torture me and I come out alive giving you information. Got anything else to threaten me with?" she challenged.

He didn't like being cornered or outwitted especially by someone like her. He didn't tolerate arrogance even though that was incredibly hypocritical. But he didn't see an alternative with her and decided it was best to just get on with it.

"Start building some meat on your bones. Push-ups, sit-ups, and lunges thirty times a day," he said, turning away begrudgingly.

She wanted to pout about being told to do exercises to build up her muscle mass. It wasn't going to be fun. She'd rather just get straight to the training. Then she could shake these bozos, and then get the hell out of dodge.


	3. Necessary Precautions

**ThatGirl: She is a handful, but that's her 'charm' I suppose. And it's kind of like a 'buddy cop' scenario where you put two very different people together and they work off each other for good chemistry and hilarity. Or at least that's what I'm going for.**

 **Chapter Three: Necessary Precautions**

"Owwww."

She was laying on her side across the wooden floor, trying desperately to catch her breath and ignore the throbbing pain all over her body. She thought maybe she was going to pass out or vomit, maybe even both. And it didn't help that Malik was laughing his butt off while doing his cataloging.

"Don't mock me," she whined, turning towards him with somewhat of a glare and a prominent pout.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said, rolling his eyes.

He'd been watching Pyrrha train for the last week or so, _train_ being used in the loosest term possible, and had been laughing rather drily at her screwing up constantly. He knew about her little 'deal' with Altaïr and how once she was strong enough to make the journey to Masyaf and not completely shatter the second another injury occurred, the novice was going to take her to Al Mualim. It was important their Mentor knew about possible insider information about the Templars and their Grand Master. It was cute that she tried to pull a fast one on them.

"You know some helpful tips would be nice," she panted, lifting herself up on trembling limbs.

"But seeing you fail time and time again is just so amusing," he said with a small smile and a laugh.

She cursed in Greek and sank against the sprawl of pillows tiredly. Her muscles, her stomach, her _everything_ was hurting. At first it was a good hurt, like her muscles were being worked and built, but now it was like one of her cuts had been reopened kind of hurt.

"So if you're from Greece," Malik said, wiping an eye, "how do you know Arabic?"

"Pft!" she scoffed, still trying to catch her breath. "How do I _not_ know Arabic? That's a better question."

That didn't really answer his question. But if he asked her another question that would make it seem like he had an interest in her life. If he gave her that impression he wouldn't hear the end of her teasing.

"Here's a friendly tip: don't drink or eat a lot. You'll get cramps."

She pouted again. "But food… I love food so much."

He shook his head. "You're such a strange woman," he grumbled, flipping through the book's pages.

Pyrrha grinned ironically at him.

X

Altaïr was back in Masyaf, sitting in its extensive library doing research amongst the vast archives. The man was sitting at a table with a tall stack of books, going through all of them. He was skimming through a list, looking for a certain name affiliated with the Levantine Assassin — specifically the name Argyros.

He knew he was being paranoid. The woman was stick thin and couldn't hurt a fly in her current state. He had to know. He couldn't wait on her to give up information as he taught her basic fighting techniques. He had to know why the Templars were using Pyrrha and how badly they would work to get her back for their purposes. What made her such an asset that they'd drag her everywhere yet treat her so poorly? Sure, she was a weird and annoying woman, but she was probably the most stubborn one he'd ever met.

"Altaïr," he heard.

"Al Mualim," he looked up.

"What are you looking for? Shouldn't you be earning your redemption of the Brotherhood by killing the nine men I assigned to you?"

"I would be, but I'm— do you know the surname Argyros?"

If it weren't for Altaïr's highly trained eye he would have missed the fraction of a second that his Mentor's composure was lost. It seemed this was either a personal or painful memory from the family or he was hiding something big. But he highly doubted Al Mualim was lying to him. The man promoted peace, it was the primary goal of the Assassins. After all, lies, if discovered that is, creates discord and destroys peace amongst people.

"Yes. The Argyros family is… not a family we like to speak of. They are affiliated with our sworn enemy: they provide them lots of rations and fresh water with their vast land and rivers in Greece. So in return the Templars grant them prestige and coin. Why do you ask?"

"I'm… not sure yet," he said truthfully. He stood and gave his Mentor a farewell before leaving.

He needed to get to Jerusalem quickly. He feared for Malik's life. They may be at odds with each other because of what Altaïr did, but they were still brothers in arms. There was a high possibility Pyrrha could be playing them and finding information in Jerusalem's archives about the Assassins and how to eliminate them. If this was true, she was a better actor than he initially thought she was. Apparently, that level of hatred and anger towards the Templars _could_ be faked. And apparently, his eagle vision could be wrong even though it never had been before.

He rode almost all day to Jerusalem, the sun was setting, and he thought for certain Malik must be dead by now. He may be a Master Assassin and Pyrrha may be skin and bones, but Malik had lost his dominant arm and she probably had her own unique methods of killing such as poison.

He hopped off his horse and entered the base via the roof, hidden blade drawn. He was going to mow Pyrrha down if he had to and if he'd made it on time then he'd save Malik.

When he burst through the door what he saw was Malik and Pyrrha laughing both their butts off, sharing a flask between each other. They were clearly drunk. Altaïr looked back and forth between the two of them in confusion before schooling his features. He didn't have to be a scholar to know what's going on.

"Oh! Altaïr!" Malik called. This was the most lively he'd seen the man since his little brother Kudar died. "Is that you?! I see three of him. Am I… am I going crazy Pyrrha?!" he slurred, pulling at her sleeve to get her attention and causing her to sway a bit.

"Nah! It's not you. I see those novices!" she said, her unfocused hand searching everywhere before finally finding his cheek and pushing him playfully. It seemed she didn't know her strength because the man fell to the floor.

The two of them laughed harder: Pyrrha's head was thrown back with her feet propped up on the table, and Malik was almost rolling on the tile with mirth. Altaïr almost _almost_ rolled his eyes at the display but settled for a sigh. There wasn't any danger. Apparently, Pyrrha Argyros was just the same as she was before: shrouded in mystery, a terrible comedian, and withholding information. Definitely not a threat otherwise she would've taken the chance she was given and the deed would be done. Especially since Malik's a sloppy drunk. But Altaïr needed answers. _Now_.

"Pyrrha," he called through their giggle fit. "I need a word with you."

"Have a sentence even," she snorted, setting the flask down just in time for Malik to grab for another swig.

Before she could complain Altaïr grabbed her arm, and lifted her from her seat. She was complicent, too drunk to fight back and protest at being treated like a human sized doll. He dragged her into the washroom and sat her on the wooden stool rather forcefully. She hiccuped and then scoffed at his brutality.

"That is not how you treat a lady," she said, slumping against the wall for support.

"Are you a lady? A lady of Argyros? Lady of the _Templars_?" he asked sharply.

"What?" she snorted. "No."

It was painfully obvious she was lying. He didn't take too kindly to that. In fact, he ejected his hidden blade visibly, _audibly_ to let her know just how disdainful he was to her fibs.

"I do _not_ appreciate being lied to," he said.

She groaned and rolled her eyes irritably. "You're such a delicate flower. Lighten up will you?" she said. "Hand me that mug of water."

He practically shoved the mug into her hand, hoping it would help sober her up. She gave him a look he didn't want to decipher before downing the mug in one gulp. He watched the water run down her olive skinned neck in rivulets before she set the glass down and wiped it away with the back of her hand.

"Alright, talk."

"Fine," she sighed. "If you must know then _yes_ I am _technically_ a noble woman. But considering all the shit that's gone down I'd say I'm as good as disowned." she sniffed. "Fat chance of getting back to Greece."

"Do you have any affiliations with the Templars?"

Her voice became deadly serious, silver eyes narrowing maliciously, "I told you, don't ever compare me to those bastards. _Ever_."

It didn't suit her typical jovial personality and he didn't appreciate the sudden stark contrast one bit. And considering the way she bumped him and actually got him to move just enough for her to slip by said a lot. One - she was severely pissed with him. Two - she was getting stronger.

Before she got far he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her back towards him. That earned him a frown and only a somewhat stern look from the young woman. She looked tired to him.

"Watch where you touch a lady," she mocked half heartedly. "Pervert."

He ignored it and told her, "Get some sleep. We'll talk more in the morning." he released her and walked away from her. What he was originally going to say died on his lips. Perhaps in the morning he'd say it or remember it.

"Alright, you bossy mare," she quipped whilst rubbing her eyes.

She didn't particularly enjoy authority but going to bed sounded nice. She worked out a lot today and all that drinking just made her want to curl up by a fire and sleep the rest of the night and a possible hang over.

Altaïr watched as Pyrrha headed towards the back room where most Assassins slept after a mission before he headed towards where Malik was. The man was passed out across the table, but Altaïr didn't have any patience for it. He shook him awake.

"Wh-what?" Malik grunted, slapping his hands away.

"Wake up. I have to ask you questions," he said.

"Can't it wait?" he grumbled, about to drop back against the hard surface.

"No, it can't," he said.

Malik gave him a severe look and refused to say anything. Odd, when Pyrrha asked him questions she got a hard look and then answers. Why didn't Altaïr get the same treatment? Was it because he was a man? That didn't seem fair. Or was it because she was generally nice to everyone? Yes, she teased everyone but it was never malicious. Perhaps, the nicer approach might do Altaïr some good.

So he said, in a slightly gentler tone, "Please, answer some questions for me."

Malik sighed. "Fine," he said, sitting up reluctantly. "What do you want to know?"

What was Altaïr's problem tonight? He came in a foul mood with his blade out and everything while he and Pyrrha finally found something interesting to do: drink. He didn't know how she found that flask, but he sure was glad she did.

"What were you doing drinking with Pyrrha?"

It was too easy.

"Are you jealous, Altaïr?"

"No."

Malik scoffed. "What? I can't enjoy a few vices? It's not like I can just go into the battlefield and help my comrades anymore, can I?"

Altaïr lifted his hands in apology. It was very easy to forget that Malik had lost an arm in battle since it happened so recently. Or perhaps it was because Altaïr didn't want to think about how it was his fault that Malik lost his arm and little brother Kadar. He supposed since all Malik could do was archive and what not for the Brotherhood maybe drinking wasn't something Altaïr should really lecture the man on. Even if he was with Pyrrha.

"Have you noticed anything… _peculiar_ about Pyrrha?" he asked, still suspicious of her.

"You mean _besides_ her usual behavior? Then no. Now, are we done here?" Malik asked acidly.

"No. You've been with Pyrrha the most, do you think she's ready for a trip to Masyaf?" he asked.

"No."

It was automatic as if he didn't need to think about it at all. Altaïr was suspicious. Was Malik planning something? Conspiring against him out of hate for being the one responsible for his arm? Or was he warming up to Pyrrha? Befriending her and what not? It didn't seem likely whatsoever, but his rash judgment has gotten him in trouble before. After all, the man was alone for most of the day. He didn't have anyone to talk to you or spend time with. Malik probably appreciated the company… even though he claimed to find Pyrrha irritating. Altaïr didn't know how he felt about any of it.

"Are you sure?" Altaïr asked.

"Are you doubting me?" Malik challenged.

Altaïr shrugged him off. "Go back to sleep."

Malik gave him one last mildly scathing look before promptly passing out across the wooden surface of the table.

X

The next day Pyrrha was awoken by someone or something she was unaware of. She jumped and then she realized who it was. Altaïr. She relaxed, not intimidated by his presence. Why couldn't he just leave her alone especially after a night of drinking?

"Can't you let me sleep?" she groaned, rolling back over.

"It's almost noon," he said incredulously. Then he realized that probably wasn't that surprising considering she probably just slept off a hangover. He put that thought aside though. "You're going to help me with a mission," he said.

"Am I?"

"Yes, you are. It's time you earn your keep," he said, pulling her up to her feet with a little more resistance than what he was used to. Had she gained weight.

"Teach me a fighting technique first or I walk," she said.

She moved past him, running a hand through her hair tiredly as she headed towards the washroom. She was about to put on an armor chest plate borrowed from the bureau. She'd been working out with them on and building more muscle mass even though it still hurt like hell to do it. But her determination wasn't to be taken lightly. And by now, she thought she was ready for the next step. She wouldn't allow Altaïr to be stingy with the training.

"You've got nowhere to go," Altaïr countered.

He did the best to ignore the fact that she began to braid her long brown hair in the typical Grecian fashion: a thick braid wrapped around her head like a crown and the rest of her hair pulled into a bun in the center. Even though she said that she was most likely banished by her family and lived in a different culture, it seemed some habits just never die.

"You'd be surprised. Where do you think I was holed up in for those days after escaping Sablé? And if I walk so does Templar secrets too. It's called blackmail," she said while washing her face with the bucket of water Malik gathered. "Get used to it."

He grasped her arm and spun her around to face him. "You try my patience, woman," he said.

"Ooh, I thought you'd last longer before throwing a hissy fit," she snorted in amusement and the way his lips were getting tighter and tighter told her she should probably get to the point. "Ever hired a prostitute, Altaïr?"

He was taken aback, face reddening despite himself. Hiring a prostitute? Why would she ask something like that? Oh wait, this was Pyrrha of course she would ask something like that.

"No," he said as evenly as possible. "Why?"

She wiggled her brows and smirked in amusement. It seemed the subject of sex wasn't exactly a comfortable one for him. That was nice to know.

"Ooh? A real innocent guy are you? Bet you haven't ever seen a woman naked, have you?" she teased. From what little she could see of his face he was flushing deeper. She chuckled amusedly. "Anyways, if you hire a prostitute you pay them up front before they perform their… _services_. Teach me to fight and I'll do this 'mission' or whatever."

"You're not ready."

"I'm ready," she said, getting up in his face.

They glared at one another, staring each other down. He wouldn't let her win this one. He'd get her to back down for once and do what he wanted. He was the Assassin, the one with the weapons and extensive training, and the one who could kill her if she didn't comply. She'd back down he knew it.

They were out on the roof with a set of training dummies up. Pyrrha had on one of the throwing knives. He considered using a wooden one for her since she was indeed a fragile woman. But he didn't have the time and the patience for it. If she hurt herself then it wasn't his problem. That was his stance on _that_.

"Pierce that dummy. But I don't think you have the physical strength yet to—"

"HUGH!" she grunted.

Then she thrust her arm with all her might at the left side of the dummy's chest. The small blade did indeed pierce the dummy, but her pressure was off, so the knife broke as if it was made of toothpicks.

Altaïr just looked at her. She was insane. The most peculiar, unpredictable woman — no person he'd ever met. He didn't know if he could handle her for however long he'd have to deal with her.

"Yes! I feel like an Amazonian warrior!" she cheered. "How did I do? You know, except for breaking the knife of course."

Without a word, he didn't even know where to begin verbally, he handed her a new throwing knife. He then grabbed her wrist. Pretending as if she was an extension of himself, he tried to imagine her as one of his fellow Assassins he was occasionally roped into training.

"You do it like this," he sighed.

He thrust her arm out, distributing the weight evenly, and he struck a non-punctured area of the dummy as a proper demonstration.

"Oh," she said softly. She dismissed how warm he was, easily he darfed and encased her, or the fact that she could feel his breath on her ear. "Let me try it on my own again." she tried to shrug him off.

Confused by her eagerness to get him away, he looked down at her curiously before pulling away entirely. Was he so unpleasant to her that she had to push him off? He was just trying to be professional and teach her the method…. Whatever. It wasn't his problem.

They kept at it for about an hour before Altaïr called it quits. He told her it was time for them to head out for his mission from Al Mualim. Pyrrha, of course, argued with him, saying she wanted more practice because she almost had a clean shot where she didn't damage the blade. But for once, Altaïr won this argument much to his delight. Although, he had to promise her how to throw these knives.

"So what's the plan man?" she asked, mounting her mare.

"Just follow me," he said.

"You're no fun," she pouted before spurring her horse on with the heel of her boot.

She took off at a gallop through the streets ahead of him and likewise he followed too, telling her to slow down and wait up for him. He knew she had no clue where they were going. He hadn't told her. So he went ahead of her to take the lead. Always the lead with her it seemed. He would never admit it, but the mildly irritated look on Pyrrha's face brought out a little bit of Altaïr's competitive nature. After all, Miss Hails From A Noble Family obviously liked one-upping him and throwing him off his game with her teasing and take-control nature. So it felt good to win at times.

He came to a stop after a few hours of horse riding he came to a stop, causing her to stop as well.

"Are we here?" she asked, looking around. And that was when she noticed a crowd of people trying to get into a wealthy open plaza, and heard the sound of deep drums being played loudly. "Ooh, a party! Did you bring me here for being such a good student?" she smirked cheekily just to get a rise out of him.

That earned an eye roll. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, dismounting his arabian. "Come on, let's go."

She frowned at him. "Why are we here?"

"Not out in the open," he said, eyeing passing civilians.

"Ugh, fine," she said, rolling her eyes at him for being difficult.

She hopped off her palomino, petting her muzzle affectionately before putting her up at the water trough. After that she faced him curiously. And then she felt him grasp her bicep and pull her forward. She glared at him for the method of getting her to follow him.

"You know, I don't appreciate being manhandled," she said.

"Hush, Pyrrha," he said, pulling her into a narrow empty alleyway and behind a building. "Here." he gave her a pair of scanty, bright colored clothing.

Her silver eyes widened almost cartoonishly as she looked back and forth between the clothes and Altaïr. He wasn't suggesting what she thought he was suggesting was he? Alone. Behind the building. Alone.

"Uh, Altaïr, you know I was kidding about the whole prostitute thing. It was just a metaphor, okay," she laughed uncomfortably, backing away slowly.

He saw the fear behind her laughter and humor, and he realized he probably should've clarified before giving her the clothes. He didn't mean _that_. No prostitution and sexual services were suggested here. He didn't want her to get the wrong idea and knew he better remedy it before she fled.

"No, I don't want you like that," he said, feeling his face heating up mostly in embarrassment. "I want you to change into these clothes, enter the party, and distract the guards."

"Oh thank God," she breathed.

The look of relief on her face was almost fascinating. Her once very wide, silver eyes softened and relaxed dramatically, shrinking in half to go back to its regular size. Was performing sexual favors for him such a terrible notion that she was that afraid? He shook his head of the thought. It wasn't about him, he reasoned. Sex for money wasn't fun no matter the circumstance. Nothing was against him.

"Okay. At least I get to attend a party out of this deal," she stretched. "I could use some fun."

He turned away from her and grumbled, "Just hurry up and change."

She slipped off her armor, then her clothing, and left her undergarments on. And then she realized that removing the undergarments was probably best considering all it was was a bedazzled bikini top, and an equally bedazzled mid-shin length skirt with slits up the sides held together with a single wrap around the waist. Well damn, maybe she really _was_ posing as a prostitute. She didn't know how she felt about that. Too many thoughts firing off all at once.

"Well, I look like a dancer… or a sucubus. Ooh, maybe a dancing sucubus," she said just as he was turning around. "What's next? Gambling? Are you gonna take me to a casino? I'll let you know I'm not all that—"

"Come on," he said.

From what she could see of his face it was very red. Oh right, discussions of anything sex related got him all flustered and what not. Adorable. It seemed either Assassins were sterile or taught to act like their sterile. What a boring life.

They were in front of the open gates of the party surrounded by a few guards. She looked at him expectantly. It was his plan after all. What were they supposed to be doing right now?

"Okay, now what?"

"Flirt," he said.

" _Flirt_?" she asked under her breath, paling significantly at the idea.

She _knew_ she was terrible at flirting. Annoying the hell out of people and making bad jokes was what she was really good at. She was already weirded out as it was in the dancer costume and _now_ Altaïr was suggesting that she flirt with the guards? Was he crazy? She had her limits after all. She hoped he knew that.

"Yes, distract the guards," he said near her ear. A small push between her shoulder sent her forward a bit. "Go," he said. For that, she glared at him.

"Fine, but if I die because of your stupid idea I will _so_ come back and haunt your ass for the rest of your _life_ ," she grumbled.

She walked over to the guards and didn't particularly appreciate the once over they gave her. That kind of attention made her feel like a slab of meat ready to be devoured by a starved man. It was grossly uncomfortable. The clothes provoked it, but it didn't mean they _had_ to look at her like that. These stupid guards we're making everything worse. Quick, say something.

"Hey, um, I heard that someone with a knife snuck into the party," she voiced the first thing that came to mind.

"What?" one of them asked, looking panicked.

"Nuqoud's gonna be angry," the other said.

"Then you should probably go and check it out," she supplied.

"Don't tell me how to do my job!" the bearded man shouted at her. And after a pause he said. "Let's go. Everyone except for Salim come with me!"

Three of the men ran into the party beyond the gates except for, of course, Salim. Damn, that meant her work here wasn't done yet. Great. How was she going to distract him? He'd probably seen way prettier women walk through here with better game all the time. Salim was probably immune to it.

What should she do? Just call it quits and haul ass out of Damascus back to Acre? But then again, the food inside looked delicious; she could smell it all the way over here. Perhaps she could try the 'all about you' approach and see where that went. After all, she'd only seen men flirt with women, and they always told them they were gorgeous and stuff like that. Oh and bribery. But she didn't have any material possessions to give him though.

"So…," she said, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against the brick wall with a small smirk, "is it always this exciting here?"

She could see his face flushing whether in embarrassment or anger she didn't know. Everyone seemed to blush around her. She was good at embarrassing people and making them uncomfortable. But she wasn't trying to go for that at all.

"Actually, this is my first day on the job," he admitted.

"Oh," she said softly. She placed a small, light touch on his arm and tried her best smile. She'd seen the men back at home try this method. "Trust me, it'll get better one day. I hear being nice helps." her tone was softer than it was before, hoping he found it… distracting enough.

Altaïr narrowed his eyes at the display. When he hopped the brick wall he had a perfect view of Pyrrha laughing and touching the guard's arm gingerly, obviously trying to impress the guy. He looked away. He was determined to ignore it and enter the party without detection. It _did_ bother him that she claimed that she was terrible at flirting, but the look on the guard's face pretty much said otherwise. Altaïr shook his head, trying to put it out of his mind. It wasn't important.

Pyrrha let out a small breath after passing by — Salim was it? It may not have looked like it, but she could only keep it together for a few minutes. Right now, she was kind of wired. She was never really flirted with before and didn't do a whole lot of flirting herself. In fact, she figured her humor just put everyone off, but her personality was her personality. She couldn't help it and she wasn't going to help it. And why should she?

Then suddenly she was yanked out of her thoughts when hands gripped her hips and pushed her up against one of the pillars. Before she could scream or make any sort of noise, lips descended onto hers. Her eyes flew open and saw the familiar hooded man leaning down to kiss her. Altaïr.

Why the _hell_ was Altaïr kissing her? They weren't attracted to each other. Or at least she wasn't. She hadn't seen the entirety of his face and he was a bit off putting. He was super bossy, easily irritated, stoic, and angry. Sure, there were some somewhat cute moments when he would flush at her off colored jokes. That was entertaining. But it wasn't enough to make her want to kiss him.

Immediately, she shoved him away. The look of shock on his face confused her. What? Did he think she'd put up with surprise lip assaults like this? Well, she wouldn't.


	4. Decisions

**ThatGirl: When I first started coming up with the idea for this fanfic I was replaying the original Assassin's Creed and I thought to myself 'hey, he'd be the perfect straight man to someone's comedy.' So I came up with Pyrrha and started thinking of other things about her and the relevance she has to the plot and thus this story was made. Oh yeah, I only like romance if it's done well and if it's not then I'm like why is this here this serves no purpose and it's not entertaining. I feel the same way about movies.**

 **Chapter Four: Decisions**

Well, that was something. She didn't expect that from Altaïr of all people or really anyone here. After all, there were prettier, curvier women in far more revealing outfits in here to try to make out with. And another issue was why did _Altaïr_ make out with her or anyone in fact? If she didn't know better she'd say he was a eunuch or sterile. But no, if he kissed her like that then he clearly had a thing for women… and maybe… just maybe had a thing for Pyrrha.

She snorted loudly and actually exclaimed out loud, "Nah!"

The thought left her entirely when her silver eyes caught sight of none other than delicacies spread along the table across the room. For a moment she thought she was drooling from just looking at the pretty presentation of various breads, meats, cakes, and other delicious items she hadn't had for quite some time. And before she knew it she was moving towards those lovely foods.

"Hey! Dancer girl!" she suddenly heard near her.

It broke her out of her little trance. "Me?" she asked, pointing to herself curiously.

"Who the hell else?!"

He grabbed her arm and dragged her towards the other women in similar costumes. They were dancing in a fashion she mostly definitely hadn't had any experience in. Then again she wasn't all that coordinated with her feet (she liked to blame it on her sandals though). Sure, she'd very briefly studied it from one of her many books about Syria, but that certainly didn't mean Pyrrha ever put it into practice. So she was very much put on the spot.

She looked from her peripherals and tried to copy the women next to her's moves. But she was behind, tripping up, and definitely wasn't as alluring as any of the others. She tried though. But the whole clumsy thing probably got old, real quick.

"You new here?" one of the women asked near her.

"Yeah," Pyrrha said to her as they did a spin.

"You'll get the hang of it," the woman said with an encouraging smile.

"What's your name?" she asked as the toe of her sandal caught against the cement. She barely caught herself from smashing her face in.

"Aisha. What's yours?"

"Pyrrha."

"Girls! Stop talking!" the man that grabbed Pyrrha hissed at them.

Both of them frowned but complied. Pyrrha tried to keep up and all; however, she was very much in over her head. Aisha and all the other women probably had years of training and she didn't. How was Pyrrha going to blend without getting kicked out like some kind of chump? But thankfully the song was mercifully shorter than she thought it would be. The loud drums came to a stop soon enough, signaling the dance was finished.

"Thank God," she said not all that softly, wiping sweat from her brow.

Aisha laughed softly at her. It made her feel a little odd, no one really laughed at her or found her funny. It was a nice change of pace.

"Wow, no one really laughs at me," she said as she followed the rest of the women who began dancing with individuals. "It's usually 'shut up, Pyrrha' or 'that's not lady-like, Pyrrha' or 'don't have fun at all, Pyrrha'."

Aisha continued to giggle at her words. Pyrrha wasn't going to lie it was a bit of an ego boost for her. It was nice to be appreciated even for something as minor as her humor.

"So you're from Greece right?" Aisha asked after controlling herself from her giggle fit.

"Yeah, how did you know?" she asked curiously.

Pyrrha picked up a ladle about to pour herself some punch as she continued to look at the woman she just met rather recently.

"Your name," Aisha replied swiftly.

She'd never admit it out loud especially around the Assassins, but she longed to be back in Greece where her family was and where a crusade for the holy land wasn't going on. If she did spill the beans, they'd simply lock her up and not allow her any sort of freedom. In that sense, they were only slightly better than the Templars.

"Yeah, there's no place like home," she said, trying to keep the bitterness out of her tone as she poured the reddish liquid into a cup.

"Hey, I heard there's a ship heading out to Greece tonight," she said.

Pyrrha nearly dropped her cup from the shock of such good news. There's a ship going to Greece? Her home country? Crossing the Mediterranean Sea to take her home? This was far too good to be true. Aisha must be messing with her.

"Really?" she couldn't keep the hope from seeping into her tone.

"Yeah, we go on tours to whoever pays nicely. If you wear that costume I can guarantee you'd get on that ship."

Pyrrha was about to ask her some more questions, but both of them were pulled onto the dance floor. As one of her fellow party people spun her around to get her to dance and whatnot her head was spinning with possibilities.

Going back to Greece? Sure, she'd probably been banished, but home was home. Things made sense there. She'd be out of the sweltering heat, surrounded by water and greenery. But then she'd probably never see Malik or Altaïr again. And as much as she would've loved to ditch them and kick some dirt in their face when she met them, she'd be lying if she said they didn't grow on her. Not to mention banishment was prossibility.

Decisions, decisions.

X

Altaïr tore his eyes away from Pyrrha conversing and dancing with other party goers. Come to think of it she was probably used to lavish events like these. That's why she probably blended so well with crowds and looked like a fellow party person… with the exception of her awful dancing of course.

He needed to focus on the entry into Abu'l Nuqoud's palace, the balcony specifically. Thanks to Pyrrha, he was able to sneak into the courtyard where the party was held, but unfortunately she was also the cause for high guard activity within the party. Looking around him, he noticed all points were guarded and he couldn't make a scene or a sound otherwise he'd miss his shot and Nuqoud would just hide within his palace. He'd have to get Pyrrha to cause another diversion.

He weaved through the crowd until he spotted the silver eyed girl he'd been looking for. Her dance partner spun her out, so he took the opportunity to intercept. Altaïr caught her by the shoulders and stopped her from spinning. He waited for her to get her bearings since she was still wobbling.

"Whoa, too dizzy," she said, steadying herself. When she finally stopped seeing double she noticed who it was. "Altaïr. Here to try and shove your tongue back down my throat? You know, if you're not careful you could choke your lovers doing that," she snorted in amusement.

He ignored it for the most part, but the heat rising on his cheeks said otherwise. He really did bring her merciless teasing upon himself for trying to kiss her and all. But ain't nobody got time for that. Nuqoud was starting to give his speech to his guests.

"I need you to cause an uproar," he told her.

He watched her silver eyes dart left and right languidly before she answered, "Easy enough."

Pyrrha pulled away from him and picked up an empty bottle of wine that one of the caterers just poured for everyone and then smashed it on the ground. She roared at the top of her lungs:

"ARSENIC! ARSENIC IN THE DRINKS!"

That definitely got everyone's attention. In fact, it was a mad stampede. People were screaming manically, dropping their drinks, and running over others to get away. Pyrrha was pushed and pulled around like a violent wave unlike Altaïr who was an expert at maneuvering through insane crowds.

She cursed loudly in her native language and then grabbed the table to pull herself up on top of it. It shook violently as everyone attempted to escape. But they began falling like flies, their goblets clattering to the ground; the same goblets that actually contained the wine she lied about being filled with arsenic. Were they actually… _poisoned_?

"Hahaha!" Nuqoud laughed manically, pot belly shaking in his colorful clothing. "Finally, sweet vengeance! This for all of your whispers behind my back for being different! Guards, kill all those who try to escape."

Pyrrha's eyes widened marginally.

But for Altaïr, it was the perfect opportunity to approach the eloquent balcony. He used the footholds along the wall to start scaling it. He grabbed the archer reloading his bow's string and threw him to the ground. Altaïr pulled himself up and snuck along the walls in order to remain hidden.

He got to the balcony where Nuqoud and his two bodyguards stood. He knew he needed to be stealthy about this and just how to accomplish this. He came up behind the first guard, covered his mouth, and stabbed him in the back with his hidden blade. He set the body to the ground soundlessly. Then he moved on to the next guard and did the same.

Now, all was left was Nuqoud himself. Altaïr sunk his blade into his kidney as he tried to get his hand around the large man to keep him still. It wasn't easy. He eased the man on his cushioned back. Nuqoud started coughing up blood, hacking, wheezing, and just fighting for breath as his lungs started filling up with blood.

"This isn't… over. I… saw you… with that… silver-eyed girl… today. Sticks out… like a sore thumb. Sablé… is looking… for her. Rightly pissed off. I sent… my… finest men… to inform Sablé… and… end her… life. Your… friend… is… going… to… die."

Nuqoud's body convulsed, spraying more blood, before finally relaxing. Altaïr ran his two fingers down his face, closing his lifeless eyes in rest before standing. Then he let go of the body quickly.

Altaïr mounted the balcony's railing, looking for Pyrrha. If what Nuqoud said was true then she was a dead woman. Robert de Sablé was probably absolutely livid. For one, she was valuable to him for reasons Altaïr wasn't quite sure of, and two, she escaped him with personal information. She wounded his pride, insulted him personally, and had valuable information against the Templar Order. Pyrrha was going to die by Sablé's hand unless Altaïr intervened.

His eyes swept along the dead bodies and people scattered all over the cobbled pavement. He hoped one of them wasn't Pyrrha. He didn't see her drink any of the wine from the fountain, so in theory, she should be fine. He didn't see anyone with a bright orange dancer costume lying dead on the ground. But then again he didn't see anyone alive in the giant plaza.

Panic started to seep through his cool exterior when he activated his eagle vision. He looked around for that telltale blue aura to try and find his friend. His eyes darted all around, wondering if she really was dead. All he saw was red around the living people. No blue. Just when he was about to proclaim her dead, he saw a tiny sliver of blue. It was hard to make out since it was so close to red, actually blending parts of it into purple. But nonetheless he finally found her.

Once his eagle vision was gone he saw the aura belonged to none other than Pyrrha with the guard she distracted while he snuck into the party. Altaïr's gaze narrowed in confusion and irritation at the display.

"Oh hi… Salim," Pyrrha huffed.

"You remember me?" he asked, surprised.

 _Barely_ , she thought. She was exposed to too many faces and names today. That and people were poisoned and dying left and right around her, so she was lucky that she even remembered that his name began with an 'S'. All she wanted to do was get away from this place with Altaïr or not. She heard Nuqoud's orders: everyone was going to die. And she wasn't going to be one of them. So maybe just maybe Salim liked her enough to let her go. But Pyrrha wasn't going to hold her breath.

"Of course I remember you," she said, hoping it wasn't too forced.

He smiled a shy smile, looking rather flattered. Apparently, very positive female attention wasn't something he was used to. It was kind of endearing.

"Do you know what's going on?" he asked. "I couldn't hear Nuqoud over the screaming people."

This was her opportunity! If she lied her ass off and she'd be scott free. How angry could Nuqoud get if just one party guest got free? A non-tax paying, war hating party guest, mind you.

"You know… that um… guy with the knife," she said, having trouble recalling, "poisoned everyone."

"That's horrible," he said.

"Yeah, so if you don't mind helping a girl out and—"

"Salim!"

Both of them jumped at the loud bellow from behind them. They turned and saw Salim's superior just slice someone across the back with his sword. They flinched and looked away especially when the woman screamed in pain.

Pyrrha didn't think she'd ever get used that level of up close brutality.

"Sir?"

"What are you doing talking with the enemy?" he demanded. "Did you not hear Nuqoud?! Kill everyone!"

"Well, shit," she said aloud.

Her easy method of escape was now shot to hell. Now either Salim or his boss were going to hack away at her. Although, she still had her throwing knife hidden in one of the many folds of this get-up, so she wasn't completely helpless. But could she actually do it? Kill someone? Even if it was to save her own life?

Well, the look of hurt and betrayal on Salim's face and him drawing his sword said she had to make her decision quickly. She glanced back and forth between the two men surrounding her. She could either run back into the party and find another exit (which wasn't very likely) or stab her way through Salim.

"You lied to me!" Salim shouted, voice cracking with emotion. "You're gonna pay!"

It seemed she'd have to stab away even though it pained her to do so.

He swung, she barely dodged out of instinct, and took her opportunity to get close. He made the mistake of carrying a heavy weapon and now his recovery was far too slow. So she came close, pulled out her knife, and stabbed him through a chink in his armor. He spluttered and coughed and then fell to the ground, convulsing from the pain in his abdomen.

She gasped at her own actions even though she was in full control of her body. She couldn't believe she did it. Even though he wasn't dead yet he couldn't survive being impaled in a complicated area like the stomach. Never had she thought she was capable of ending a life. He could've had a wife, children, friends, family. And she took him away from all of them.

"Y-you! You killed him…!" the guard behind her gasped in shock.

"I… I," she said, wanting to push away the guilt and fear that was making bile rise in her throat. "Well, what does it look like _genius_?" she barely huffed out.

Then she ran.

Her feet thundered across the pavement, leaving a trail of dust in her wake. So many feelings were coursing through her. The guilt had her stomach in knots. The constant fear inside her was driving her a little mad. And honestly, she wanted to go home where things made sense. Maybe her family could be forgiving. She hoped for the impossible.

Her decision was made. It was time to go home. She'd take the ship home and be done with the Templar and Assassin bullshit. At least she'd buy herself some time away from it all.

She found her horse tied at the water trough, hopped on her, and took off at a much higher speed. Pyrrha was going home.

Altaïr was hot on her trail. He wasn't going to let her get away and be killed by Sablé. So he took a swipe at the gate guard's calf to keep him from running. The man cried out in pain before Altaïr caught him.

"Did you see a woman run through here?"

"Yes," he gasped.

"Where did she go?"

The man didn't answer quickly enough, so Altaïr ejected his blade — poised to inflict pain. Time was of the essence and the Assassin had no patience.

"N-north! She headed north on horseback!" he exclaimed, looking as if he might start sobbing. "Please don't kill me!" he pleaded. Altaïr's blade sank into the man's chest, done with his enemy. He told him to rest in peace, and ran his fingers down his eyelids to close them.

Then Altaïr took off, finding his horse, and then cantering on along the streets. He was heading north to find Pyrrha and keep her away from Sablé at any cost. He'd keep her safe and wouldn't dare let Sablé kill her. She was such a pain in the ass. If she had just stayed where she was at then he could keep her safe.

As his horse thundered through the streets he caught a glimpse of orange fabric flying on horseback. He could see she was heading towards the ports and the many ships reading for, at least, a month long journey to import more cargo. She wanted to go back home. Surely, there was a ship going to Greece to take her back. He wouldn't let her get away.

"Pyrrha!" he called.

She gasped in surprise, nearly toppling off her horse and eating dirt. But she caught herself and gave him a furtive look for nearly killing her from the fall.

"The hell are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he said.

"Piss off!"

She pulled on the reins to slow her horse down. Then she maneuvered her palomino behind Altaïr before taking a little detour down an alleyway full of sharp corners. She knew it would be hard to make these tight turns and see which turns she was taking. But either way, she was going to slow him down and shake him. If there was one thing Pyrrha was really good at it was running away… and, well, running her mouth.

She looked behind her as she weaved through the small crowds and narrow alleyways. She didn't see Altaïr and smirked. Her silver eyes came across the docks when she turned back around. She could see another set of dancer girls filing into one ship and that was all it took to know which ship was hers. Her smile was positively victorious.

She was home bound to Greece and nothing was going to stop—

Screams of terror, and whinnies of pain sounded off when Pyrrha was intercepted by none other than Altaïr, and Robert de Sablé. Her horse skittered to a stop and bucked like a bronco. She was thrown into the air with great speed towards the ship, screeching wildly, before landing harshly into the water beside the ship, barely missing the railing. It wasn't a soft landing either; doing a belly flop with that amount of force wasn't something that someone could just brush off so easily.

For a few moments all she did was sink further into the water, practically paralyzed in pain. But the burning in her lungs for oxygen made her move quickly and soon she broke the surface for air. When her head broke free from the water she took in big gasps of air, coughing sporadically since she unfortunately inhaled some salty water.

She looked around and vaguely heard through the water in her ears that Sablé was yelling at his men to find her. She shuddered in fear. How the hell did Sablé find her? Who ratted her out? It couldn't have been Altaïr or Malik since the Templars, especially their Grand Master, was their greatest enemy. No one besides those two knew who she was, Assassins wise, so… it had to be somebody from the party. Was it that Aisha woman? Was it Nuqoud? Is that why Altaïr wanted him assassinated? Because he was a Templar?

"You son of a bitch," she growled angrily.

"Hey, did you hear something?" she heard a male voice ask.

"Shit," she muttered under her breath.

She hugged the side of the ship, using the rigid decorations as footholds. She began to climb it slowly, her clothes now wet and heavy, since she was thrown from her horse by the Assassins and Templars. She bit her bottom lip to keep her grumblings quiet as she slowly reached the top.

Her silver eyes peaked over the edge to look for pairs of feet that would most definitely intercept her. She didn't see any at the moment, so she pulled herself up onto the ship and back on her feet.

"What are you doing here?" someone asked her harshly.

She visibly jumped at the man's voice. Her nerves were practically fried from all the 'excitement'.

"Uh, is this the ship to Greece? I'm with the dancer girls," she supplied awkwardly, scratching the back of her head.

He gave her a disdainful look, especially her soaking wet clothes and her face, suspicious of her. She could see it in his eyes. Uh-oh.

"Oh yeah, I'm a klutz. I fell into the water like a doofus," she said. "So um about that ship I would—"

"Over here! She's over here! The silver eyed girl is over here!"

"Oh come on!" she groaned in irritation.

She pushed him to the floor, out of her way, so she could jump through the gap in the railing onto the post before leaping onto the next ship. She looked around frantically and what she saw caused her blood to freeze in her veins — which was quite a feat considering how hot the direct sunlight was. Sablé just entered the end of the ship she was on and Altaïr pulled himself up on top of it as well. She was corned by both Templars and Assassins. _Great_.

"So… you're here, I'm here… again," she said awkwardly.

"You've caused me quite a bit of grief! The both of you!" Sablé shouted. He drew the sword from his side and pointed it at her. It wasn't a surprise that she'd be the most hated. "You and that Assassin _friend_ of yours will die by my hand today!"

"Aw, humiliated that someone as weird as me has a friend?" she antagonized. Although, she wasn't certain she'd call Altaïr a _friend_ perse.

The point is she was hoping she'd enrage him, so he'd get sloppy. After all, he had reason enough to be pissed about her escaping and risking valuable information. Perhaps she could push him over the edge. Then Altaïr could kill him. That was a… hope.

" _Befriended_?" he said, scoffing. "He and his brethren would sell you out in a skinny minute if it meant benefiting their order. But, I suppose it's better than nothing, isn't it Pyrrha?"

She looked away uncomfortably for a moment, and then shot back, "Well, s-so is your face! … Goddammit!" she cursed at her inability to make a decent joke in this instance.

Sablé, with a smirk on his face, lowered his sword to point it towards her. And that was some sort of signal for his Templars because several arrows were shot, originating from the archers atop the buildings near the docks. The arrows, with uncanny precision, were aimed right at her. They were intended to kill seeing as they were aimed tight at her face.

She wasn't proud to admit it, but she froze. The fear was too intense and it seemed as if it caused her to forget how to move. Even though her mind screamed at her to do so nothing happened. All she could do was stare with exceptional wide, silver eyes.

Then suddenly, she felt a hard hand shove Pyrrha hard to the side. She gasped in both surprise and pain from hitting the wooden floorboards. What the hell? Who had a change of heart? Who helped her. Her eyes looked up just in time to see Altaïr take a couple of arrows in the arm. He groaned in pain as he hit the floor hard too.

Her ears, that were rushing with blood at the moment, picked up the sounds of deep, malicious laughter. She glared angrily at the source: Robert de Sablé.

"Oh, this is rich!" he exclaimed, still laughing derisively. "Does the little Assassin actually _care_ for the most insufferable woman in the world? Pathétique. Impossible. Surely you're aware she's the most intolerable person to live with. Die."

He walked towards them and she tensed in fear. She saw the tip of Sablé's boot kick Altaïr off the ship by his face. Silver eyes looked down at the man, sinking in a pool of his own blood. Then her eyes snapped back up to Sablé who pointed the tip of his sword at her face. It made her heart nearly stop.

"You're next," he said, smirking.

What was she going to do? What could she do?

 **Author's Note: cliffhangers….**


	5. Risky Buisness

**ThatGirl: And sometimes the undeveloped romance or lack of chemistry in a romance is so cringeworthy. It can be funny in an ironic sense, but usually it's just not enjoyable. But hopefully, I'm not taking that route with this story. Hopefully. Anyway, no problem about reviewing later than usual. I'm just glad you did.**

 **Chapter Five: Risky Business**

It felt like time stood still. His blade was right in front of her, inching closer and closer. It was so close that her silver eyes went cross and could no longer focus on the tip of the sword. Any closer and it would pierce her skin, her skull, her brain.

If she didn't do something she knew she was going to die. No question about that. In an instance, she drew her throwing knife, diverting the sword. Then her blade immediately shattered upon impact. That mattered little to her now though.

She used the shock from Sablé to her advantage by swiping his legs easily with her own. He hit the deck hard and Pyrrha scrambled to her feet hurriedly. Her eyes darted all around. She had no idea which ship was to Greece. She rushed over to the edge, hoping to get a better look and maybe hear something useful.

"Crap," she grunted.

Her silver eyes saw none other than Altaïr sinking down in the ocean further and further. The deep red blood discolored the bluish water originating from the arrows embedded around his collarbone. Clearly, he didn't know how to swim and that injury wasn't helping one bit.

"You stupid, stupid son of a bitch," she grumbled. "How the hell do you not know how to swim?!"

She looked back and forth between the ships ready to take off for more cargo, Altaïr currently sinking, and Sablé who was beginning to get up and regain his bearings. Her mind and heart were racing in both fear and pressure. She knew she couldn't freeze up — not this time. In fact, time was most definitely of the essence and she couldn't afford to waste it.

Her eyes looked for the ship for Greece, in other words, for the dancer girls. And when she detected them they were sailing off already. That option, the easy option, was going… far, far away.

So she leapt into the water in an efficient dive with barely a splash. Then she wrapped an arm around his torso to pull up above the surface to get some much needed air. But, unfortunately, that didn't last too long because Altaïr happened to be quite heavy especially since they were both wearing sopping wet clothing. She managed to swim a few feet, but they were both sinking fast.

"Why am I even saving your ass?" she grunted, struggling to breathe.

She gurgled the ocean water a moment before her head completely submerged below into the water. She struggled hard to resurface, but Altaïr was too heavy for her to keep above water. She knew it, she was going to drown alongside a guy she barely knew.

Sablé had regained his footing and watched as the woman and her Assassin begin to sink to the bottom of the sea. He smirked maliciously at her, happy that she was suffering considering all the stress of her very existence caused him. Not to mention, he found every aspect of her personality absolutely grating. So he found drowning, fighting for breath and suffering, as a perfect end to Pyrrha Argyros.

He left. Even if the majority of his forces were still recovering from the battle at Masyaf and only had a few for back up he'd call this a satisfying day. This loose end had been taken care of and he was quite pleased to watch the life drain from her silver eyes.

Just when her lungs couldn't bare it any longer, burning with the need for oxygen, she felt something propel her forward. That something gave her the boost she needed to resurface once more and take in much needed gulps of air.

"What the hell?" she coughed.

Her shaking limbs managed to barely keep her and heavily bleeding friend afloat and moving. As she swam further the more she sank, but thankfully there was a bank of closely pulled together rocks underneath a hard cliff top. She managed to barely make it. And pulling Altaïr up beside her wasn't an easy task. He was heavier than her, and his soaking wet clothes and heavy armor just made it worse. But she did it.

"Al… Altaïr," she wheezed with a barely there voice. "You… awake?"

No answer.

Uh-oh.

She leant forward. Her face was right above his hooded one; her eyes were paralell to his chin. She didn't hesitate to pull back his hood. Then she blinked in confusion at the sight of his face. His physical appearance wasn't what she expected one bit… especially from a warrior. But that wasn't important right now.

She placed her index and middle finger against his neck to check for a pulse. After a few of the slowest moments of her life she felt a weak but steady pulse against her shaking fingers. She sighed in relief.

Now the next question was: was he breathing? She grabbed the sides of his face and leant further forward to place her ear near his nose and mouth. She didn't feel breath hitting her ear or hear it either.

"Oh no," she breathed.

She had to think quick! Instead of his face she grabbed him by his shoulders and pushed him up. Then she locked her arms around his stomach and gave a hard pull, hoping the good old Heimlich Maneuver would do the trick. The young woman red about it, never put into practice though. After another hard tug it payed off. Altaïr coughed up quite a bit of water and was now gasping for air.

She sighed in absolute relief and collapsed back down against the rocks with a small airy laugh.

"Pyrrha?" he questioned hoarsely.

"God, I hope you know what a pain in the ass you are. What kind of an Assassin doesn't know how to swim?" she said, trying to keep things light. She was genuinely scared for a moment there. He's her ride to the base after all.

"Shut up," he grunted and then winced. "Why did you even bother?"

"You're my ride to the base," she deadpanned.

He just stared.

At that, she noticed that his arm was still bleeding heavily. Thankfully, sometime during their little swim the arrows disappeared. Now, he was just left with a little hole gushing blood out of his front shoulder. He'd probably bleed out sooner or later if something wasn't done.

Pyrrha looked down to see if she had anything for him and saw that yes she indeed had _something_. The long, soaking wet loops around her shoulders could certainly be used. It wasn't clean, but it was better than bleeding out. So she tore them from her shoulders.

"Here," she said.

She wrapped it around his collarbone several times as tight as she could get it to stop the bleeding as much as possible. He hissed again and she shushed him. Then she made the final knot and slowly looked up at his face. She realized how close they were.

His hood was still down and now she could see in detail what he looked like. He had a square face with tanned skin; hooded, milk chocolate brown eyes; brown, short, curly hair; and pink, somewhat plump lips. He was a very good looking man. But despite his obvious handsomeness, her eyes were drawn to the thin little scar that ran along the top and bottom of his lip. Without realizing what she was doing she ran her thumb down the thin, long scar.

She felt a hand grab her wrist and pull her hand away from his face. "What are you doing, Pyrrha?" he asked.

That was when she realized that she was in the wrong and definitely violated his personal space a little bit. But then again he did push her up against a pillar and tried to shove his tongue down her throat. So she didn't think he had any wiggle room to be upset by her just pressing a thumb to his lips.

"I don't know," she shrugged, looking away from his face awkwardly. "Just curious, I guess."

There was a pause of awkward silence between them. Her entire body was freezing except for her face, which was burning hot in embarrassment by the way, and her hand was too. It confused her until, oh yeah, he was still holding onto her hand. Her brows furrowed at his large hand engulfing hers so easily even with a missing finger.

"You know, I may have tiny hands and all, but that doesn't mean—"

His face was blossoming red as he quickly removed his hand from hers and pulled his hood up over his head. "Let's just focus on getting back to Jerusalem," he said, obviously disgruntled by her words.

She smirked amusedly at him. It was so very easy to get him all flustered like that. It was kind of adorable really. She knew it was kind of funny calling an Assassin adorable but whatever. He was. Not to mention, it was rather fun to see Mr. Stoic flush and ruffle his feathers.

"Well," she sighed, "we probably should wait until night fall. Unless you want to face Sablé with that screwed arm of yours."

"I know that," he said candidly.

"Well then, why didn't you say something sooner?" she teased lightly, poking him on his uninjured arm.

As she sat back against the inner wall of the small cave by the rocks she could see the line of his mouth tightening in irritation. Well, it seemed she went a little too far. Like she usually did. Oh well, he could calm himself.

"Calm down, calm down," she said, "I'm just playing."

He gave her a look, relenting his irritation with her. He sat against the opposite side of her on the cave wall and stared her down. He could see she wasn't exactly comfortable in dripping wet clothing that didn't leave much up to the imagination. He saw the goosebumps along her skin as she rubbed her hands up arms to try to warm herself up.

He took off the belt around his stomach that held his weapons, and took off his robes from his tunic and trousers. He chucked his Assassin's robes at her. They smacked her across the face.

"Uff!" she grunted. "Hey, don't throw things!"

"Wear them. You're shaking like a leaf," he said.

"Oh…. Thanks," she said.

She picked them up and slipped them on over her shivering body. It was weird wearing someone else's clothes especially wet ones. After all, they smelled like someone else. But still, she liked not dying of hypothermia. Call her crazy.

"So why are the Templars after you?" he asked.

Uh-oh.

Stupid Assassin, he probably planned on this ever since she pulled him out of the water. They were alone, she couldn't think of a more pressing topic to distract him, and she couldn't leave in case she might run into Sablé or his men. Damn, Altaïr.

"You sure you don't want me to make fun of why you can't swim?" she asked coyly.

"No."

Yeah, she was stalling for time, but she really couldn't feel bad for it. After all, this wasn't a subject she was comfortable with discussing. She'd never spoken of it before and she wasn't entirely comfortable with discussing it _now_. But then again, perhaps it would be rather liberating to to express a secret of hers. Maybe… she could give it a try.

"It's a long one, but it's not like you're not going anywhere are you?" she snorted dryly. "You remember I'm a 'noblewoman' right? Yeah of course you do. Well, in the most technical sense I suppose I am. I _at least_ know for certain who my mother is."

"You're talking in circles. Get to the point," he clipped.

"I am, you impatient little—" she stopped short letting out a strained breath to calm herself before starting again. "My mother was a beautiful woman… on the outside that is. I'm pretty sure the only reason my father married her was _because_ of her good looks and her good health to provide him suitable heirs. And likewise, my mother married him for his wealth and status.

So when my mother got pregnant with me, my father was pleased at the idea of having a boy. But, _of course_ , I'm not a boy. Not only was he disappointed that I am indeed female, but when he got a look at my silver eyes he accused my mother of adultery. She denied it completely, but he wouldn't listen. After all, since my mother was a very pretty lady and could've slept with, well, just about everyone, so it was believable to accuse her of it. But whether it's true or not I don't really care. It's not like I was loved or given… _human decency_."

She felt her voice catch and she knew what was going to come next if she said another word on the topic. The water works. It was one of the most touchy subjects she'd ever talk about or inform someone of. She wouldn't go into further. At least not right now.

"Pyrrha?" she heard Altaïr.

"The Templars want me because I know where the ancient artifacts are. Okay?" she said rather quickly and forcefully. "Now drop it."

Ancient artifacts? She knew where they were? More artifacts such as the Ark of the Covenant or that golden apple thing that Al Mualim showed him? Sure, that's useful to both causes, but given how she described her 'humble' beginnings it doesn't sound like she'd be privy to that bit of knowledge. If her father honestly deemed her mother as an adulteress than she most likely wouldn't have the benefit of knowing family secrets. But Pyrrha seemed to be fully aware of these locations considering the first night that he met her she was leading the Templars to the location of the artifact, so that part of her story checked out.

What was up with this woman? The more he learned about her the more questions he had. It seemed that her past was somewhat complicated especially in dealing with her hatred for the Templars and her upbringing.

He was about to press on and demand more answers from her, but the look on her face as she buried deep in his robes said he shouldn't. Given the expression on her face, she might just leave him stranded on this rock if he did so. He certainly didn't want that. But he knew he needed to press on. Curiosity and the need to know as an Assassin was adamant. He'd at least _try_ to get another word out of her about it.

"Pyrrha, I'm tired of waiting for you to tell me what's going on," he said.

"And _I'm_ tired of your prying," she said, giving him a hard look. "Now, just… be quiet."

He snorted dryly. "That's rich coming from you," he said.

She didn't say a word, just curled up further into herself. He looked at her incredulously for a moment before schooling his features once more. This was so unlike her. She normally dismissed or shook off all kinds of stress put upon her.

Not this time though it seemed.

He wrestled with whether or not to make her feel better in some manner. He couldn't help but remember a past lover. After all, the last time he'd ever gave any sort of emotional support to anyone was the woman he loved. And, of course, she was no longer living. So the thought of giving the silver eyed woman the same treatment as Adha when he didn't love her made his insides twist with guilt. But then again, he didn't think he'd ever feel love again for another living thing. It wasn't Pyrrha's fault.

Sure, they saved each other's lives a couple of times, and he did kiss Pyrrha at Nuqoud's party. He was rather ashamed of himself for doing for that moment of intimacy though. He had no clue why he was racked with jealousy over the fact that she was with another guy that guard or whatever. But whenever he saw her with Malik he wouldn't even give them a second glance. Then again, Malik and her fought like siblings that spent too much time together. So there was nothing for Altaïr to be jealous of in regards to that. Maybe it was because she was easy on the eyes — when she was healthy that is. But that certainly didn't make up for her jokes. It grated on his nerves at how she'd get him to flush so easily when it came to sexual jokes or comments. It was like she didn't have an off switch… except for now apparently.

And he hated to admit it but it creeped him out a little that those silver eyes of hers didn't have that spark to them, and her smirk was no longer on her face. It just didn't suit her whatsoever.

Before he knew it he crossed the little cave and sat next to her. "There, there," he said stiffly when he patted her shoulder awkwardly. He wasn't very good with the whole 'emotional' thing. Obviously.

She gave him an odd look.

"Assassins are so weird," she sighed.

"You have no room to talk," he said.

"Hey, at least I don't sink like a rock whenever I decide to go for a dip," she teased lightly. Her jovial attitude was slowly coming back, evident by the small smile starting to show.

She laid her head on his shoulder. She felt him stiffen, but he wasn't pushing her away or saying a word. The young woman just wanted a little comfort. She hadn't had comfort or meaningful touches in so long. It didn't have to be sexual or incredibly intimate, but basic touches like this was just fine.

Not to mention the Assassin was warm and she was still fairly cold.

"Pyrrha," he said warningly.

"Yeah?" she said.

"Get off," he said.

"Why?"

She scoffed when she felt him push her away. Wasn't he the biggest hypocrite? He tried to shove his tongue into her mouth, yet he didn't want her to do something as simple as laying her head on his shoulder. That was fucked and she was going to call him on that.

"Wow, you're as fickle as the autumn wind," she said.

"Excuse me?" he said.

"First you try to molest my mouth and now you don't want me to rest my head on you," she said. "What the absolute fuck?!"

It was his fault for sending mixed signals. She knew she wasn't the crazy one. The young woman was always called insane, but she knew it wasn't her this time. He was being weird with affection and what not. Did he want it or not? What was his deal?

"I shouldn't have tried to kiss you," he said.

"Okay," she said. "Doesn't make sense that you're so… gittery."

"You remind me of… Adha," he said. "Yet you don't."

Adha? She didn't know an Adha. She doubted that she'd ever meet her. Though Pyrrha couldn't help but wonder who she was to Altaïr. A secret lover of his? She resisted snorting. She doubted he ever had sex or had been fully intimate with anyone. He was too shy and flustered whenever the topic of sex came up. It made him fun to joke around about.

"Okay… I don't know an Adha," she said. "I don't know why you're bringing her up."

"I don't want affection from you. That's why," he said.

"Well, screw you too."

X

Later on, the two of them made it back to Jerusalem. It was a little difficult in the free running department considering one of his shoulders wasn't doing so well. But it could've been worse. If he screwed up his leg instead he wouldn't be able to scale a building at all. But Pyrrha, through obnoxious laughter at his expense, lent him a hand. So they made into the bureau without too many bumps in the road.

"Hmm, it seems you two had quite the party," Malik grumbled, flipping through a page he was cataloging.

"I'd say so. I've got the best cover ever," she beamed. "Death. Sablé thinks I'm dead!"

"Too bad it's not true," he said with no real malice.

"Ha! You wish, Malik," she said, her mood unaffected.

But the grunt of pain that came from none other than the man beside her. Oh, right. Altaïr hurt himself catching a couple of arrows for her. She should probably help him with that before he dies of infection. Even if he made an ass of himself earlier today. But she wasn't _that_ petty.

"Oh yeah, Altaïr got shot," she informed, pointing towards the injury on his shoulder. "I don't suppose you have any arak, gauze, and something he could bite on, do you?"

Both of them looked at Pyrrha wearily. Malik didn't want to go and find these items considering his work for the day was almost finished. That and he secretly hoped deep down that his fellow Assassin would die of infection. Altaïr, of course, wasn't looking forward to his skin practically burning from the alcohol to stave off infection.

"Clumsy idiot," Malik rolled his eyes.

"Blame her for the arrow wound," Altaïr said, nodding down to the short brunette.

She rolled her eyes and pursed her lips at him for that.

Then she watched Malik pull out a bottle from under his desk. She eyed him curiously for that. It seemed he had a few vices on the job. Then again cataloging all day and missing an arm would probably drive her to drink too. Then he pulled out a spare, wide quill made of wood for Altaïr to sink his teeth into. Next was a roll of gauze. Well, it seemed they were ready to clean him up.

She picked them up and grabbed Altaïr's good arm to drag over to the wash room. Then she had him take a seat on the stool in there with a small push to his chest. Good, that'll should minimize the height difference.

"Pyrrha, what—"

She stuck the opening of the bottle into his mouth before he could even finish his sentence.

"I don't have drugs, so you're gonna get tanked off your ass," she said, smirking at him.

He continued to give her a look as he took a few swigs quickly. Well, that'll get him drunk faster. Then he handed the bottle back to her with a small, drunken smile. She was fairly certain he was schnockered enough to clean out his wound. The guy _never_ smiled.

"I find you sexually appealing," he said, his words slurred.

"Yeah, you're definitely drunk," she said awkwardly, her face reddening deeply making her look like a tomato. "They aren't kidding about the 40-60% alcohol thing in this thing."

She unwrapped her makeshift bandage from his arm and dropped the bloody thing to the floor. She used a patch of gauze from the roll and decided to go for it. Once her alcohol doused cloth came in contact with the bleeding orifice the loud noise of pain startled her significantly.

"Sorry, sorry!" she exclaimed.

She vaguely wondered if this could be considered cruel irony. After all, the guy was pushy and mean a lot of the time when all she wanted to do was joke around. Not to mention, he also pushed away the simplest of affection when earlier that same day he tried to play tonsil tennis with her. And now, she was delivering a hefty amount of pain to him. A cruel irony indeed. She quickly finished it up and began wrapping up the the clean gauze around the now clean wound.

"Okay, done," she sighed. "Let's get you to bed before you hurt yourself again."

She lifted him up and held onto his arm to take him towards a cluster of pillows. He needed to sleep this off. And she needed to sleep for her own sake. Today wasn't exactly a calm and peaceful one. Maybe for an Assassin this was the norm, but for her it wasn't. Only very recently did things go topsy-turvey for her.

"O-only if ya c-come with me," he slurred.

Hitting on her again? He was _definitely_ tanked off his ass and needed bedtime and water in the morning for his impending hang over. Not her in his bed.

"Oh please," she scoffed uncomfortably. "You're just saying that to get under my skin."

"I belieeeve ya flirt with me," he continued.

"I'm teasing you," she emphasized. "You know _joking_ , dummy face. Haha, if you catch my drift."

"I _wissssshh_ you'd flirt with meee," he clarified.

She ignored that as she set him down against the pillows and blankets. She was NOT dealing with drunk Altaïr and his antics. She wasn't a baby sitter and he wasn't a baby. If she wanted a baby then she'd have sex without a vagina blocker or the neat little pull out method before the splooge. But she didn't want one, so… no thank you. Also, it was strange that Altaïr, a man who was either ridiculously repressed or didn't know what he wanted, was wanting her to flirt with him.

"Good night," she said. "Don't try and jump my bones in the middle of the night, you drugged up son of a bitch." she forced her smile as she pat his good arm and laid him on the floor.

She changed into a pair of warm, dry clothes and then she went to her pile of pillows at the other side of the room. She laid across them and closed her eyes. Finally, a moment to rest….

But she didn't rest.

In fact, voices plagued her mind now that it wasn't so busy with either a party, an escape, and a rescue. As her body and mind began to wind down that's when the real _fun_ began. She tossed and turned, trying to find peace, but voices plagued her relentlessly:

 _What did you do, Pyrrha?_

 _Pyrrha, who are you?_

 _Look at what you did._

She was shaking, sweating, and overwhelmed with an emotion she couldn't detect. She was the reason Salim, a human, a life was no longer living in this world was dead. Because of her. She practically folded herself in half in an attempt to hold herself for some sort of comfort. It wasn't working. The isolation, the dark space in front of her felt like a weight had been put on her chest. With each breath she took, she felt like the air was being sucked out of her lungs. She felt like she was all alone again. Completely. That was the most suffocating.

But the small shift in pillows across the room snapped her out of her repore like a cold bucket of water to the face.

Altaïr.

She wasn't alone. She wasn't completely isolated again with damning voices. The thought calmed her considerably. There was another human being out there that could interact with her, give her some peace of mind. Even though the thought calmed her and unfolded her from her fedal position, there was still cloying troubles that wouldn't let her be. And even though going over there seemed like a grand idea, Altaïr did say that he didn't appreciate affection.

 _You know what you did, Pyrrha._

 _Look what you've become._

Well, fuck it.

She got up and crossed the room. Then she flopped on the pile of pillows hard, jarring him quite a bit. The tell tale grunt of discomfort was heard and she mumbled an apology to him. It seemed he was hung over big time like she predicted given that he was clutching his head. Regardless, she crawled back up next to him, and laid her head down against his good shoulder. She longed for comfort. The overwhelming feelings she felt for ending Salim's life made her crave it achingly. Innocuous, promiscuous, or brief she'd take any. And she trusted Altaïr enough to give or receive it. It was better than being completely alone with thoughts to swallow her whole.

"Pyrrha, what are you doing?" she heard him ask, voice more groggy than it usually was probably from the headache.

"Snuggling," she mumbled candidly.

She turned toward him and draped an arm around his muscular stomach. She was far closer to him warmer than before. Her mind tried to remain focused on this nice feeling rather than the memory of the light leaving Salim's eyes. She didn't really get what affection did on an emotional level; perhaps provide a distraction or a comforting place. She'd love to take both. And it seemed to be doing the trick so far.

"Why?" he asked, shifting underneath her.

"What? You don't like lying with women?" she teased half-heartedly.

"Pyrrha," he said, wishing she'd just get on with it.

He felt her sigh against the cloth against his pectoral. He tried to ignore the intimacy between them as best as he could since thoughts of Adha were coming up. He didn't want to think of her when he was with Pyrrha. He missed the deceased woman, but he didn't want to replace her either with Pyrrha. That wasn't fair to both women. However, he couldn't help his mind drifting towards Adha. He felt guilty for being intimate with someone he didn't feel the same way he did for her.

"Okay, fine. I feel like a real shitty person right now. I killed a man," she said, fingers fisting at his tunic rhythmically as if it was a stress ball. "I know this might sound hilarious to you because you're an Assassin or whatever, but this is different. I don't want to sink to Sablé or the Templars' level."

He didn't know what to say to her about the particular topic. It sounded as if she thought herself better than everyone around her especially the Templars. Like she was above violence. Or she hated the Templars, particularly Sablé, so much she wouldn't dare allow herself to use such tactics. It didn't seem as if she was guilty for taking a life. Strange, a normal woman was… _unbothered_ with the killing itself, just about sinking low. To be fair, it felt like nothing could bother her unless it had to do with herself of course.

"I'm never killing again," she said sincerely.

"If Sablé or another Templar finds out you're alive they're going to kill you instead."

Was that concern in his voice? She heard a tiny hint of it in his tone. But then again, she could just be tired and hearing things. That was probably it. The man most likely didn't allow himself to feel and that's why certain emotions explode in weird ways when he was drunk. She preferred to be authentic, lay everything on the table, and not what other's thought; they could warm up to her if they so desired. No repression, no deception, and no rules set by anyone but herself.

Soon she dozed off, satisfied that her nightmares have ceased.


	6. Life Serial

**ThatGirl: I appreciate all the comments and reviews people give. And I'll take your word for it about Arno and Elise from Assassin's Creed Unity since I haven't played the game. I just feel like the last two games after Black Flag have been mediocre like they're out of ideas. You can tell Ubisoft wants to make Assassin's Creed their Call of Duty franchise, but they just can't do the whole release a game every year thing well. After all, the best game in the whole series, Assassin's Creed 2, took two years to make. I just want quality over quantity.**

 **aishachase97: Thank you so much.**

 **Chapter Six: Life Serial**

"What are _you_ staring at?"

"Nothing."

She said it too quickly. She could tell because the look on his face clearly stated that he wasn't buying it. Oh well. Who could blame her for staring? It was a rather odd occurrence. Altaïr was usually so composed and didn't show any signs of distress or exhaustion in his appearance. Sure, the young woman could get him to blush in embarrassment from her words or body confidence occasionally, but never did he look… _slagged_. She supposed taking a couple of arrows to the shoulder and drinking heavily on occasion for the pain was enough to make any person look a little worn for the wear.

"You look like somebody ran you over with a carriage," she said.

"Shut up," he said without malice.

"Do you want me to shave your face for you?" she asked. "You've got a wicked five o'clock shadow going on."

"No," he said.

He could do things with his left hand after all. He wasn't fully ambidextrous, but his usable arm wasn't completely useless. Above all he just didn't want Pyrrha constantly doing things for him, making him feel either like a child or an invalid. She always had this superior smirk to her face whenever someone needed her to do something for them. He loathed being injured and feeling inferior to her or anybody. He was a Master Assassin at the age of twenty-five for crying out loud not some little, fragile thing to be taken care of.

"Fine, next time you look like a moron I just won't say anything," she said.

Things were a little… tense, domestically that is, around the base. With Altaïr's shoulder injury, Malik being assigned in Jerusalem, and Pyrrha having pretty much no where else to go for the time being the three of them were holed up with each other with nothing else to do.

It was an odd concept for the silver-eyed woman. Usually, there was always something going on to keep them busy. Whether it be an assassination assigned to Altaïr, and Pyrrha settling in or 'helping' out things were constantly in motion — a specific task of event going on that kept all of them busy. But now… they weren't. She honestly didn't know what to do. For quite some time she was constantly in motion; she was used to it. So what should she do now?

Guilt and bad mojo were still swirling all around her like an dark cloud. She didn't know how to deal except trying to shove it down as hard as she could in her subconscious, and distract her mind from it. But how should she do it? Should she do what she did when she had free time before Sablé fucked up her life?

Read?

Why not?

So she did that.

Her nose was buried in a book as she walked on towards the back room to lay along the pillows to relax and read. It was about ships, the parts, and its functions. Normally, this particular subject didn't fascinate her one bit, but she just wanted to read. Establish normalcy. Distract her mind.

"Oof!" she exclaimed. She and her book were smushed against a firm and expansive back. Silver eyes narrowed and looked up at the back of Altaïr's white hood. Irritated. "Move or you will be moved," she said lowly.

He turned to her and looked down at her, and she could see the confusion on his face at what she said.

"Excuse me?"

"You're excused," she said with a small smirk. "Now _move_."

She bumped into him hard enough to get him out of her way and walked on. She didn't miss the affronted look he gave her, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She had too many things on her mind to begin with.

Altaïr wasn't exactly _satisfied_ with the way Pyrrha was acting the past few days. Normally, the young woman wasn't exactly the poster girl for typical/acceptable behavior but… _still_. There was something off about her lately. More so than usual that is.

It was as if she was attempting to be a bitter recluse. She was either in the back room devouring their books' contents, or practically snapping their heads off with a new vicious version of her brand of humor. This wasn't acceptable for him. He didn't know what stuck a stick up her ass, but clearly something triggered this. He couldn't recall what it could be. Maybe something happened when he was drunk which, by the way, there is a two hour window of time in which he doesn't remember anything. He hoped he didn't hurt her while tanked off his ass. He doubted that was the case; she'd probably just snap his head off and not Malik's as well.

"Altaïr," Malik said. "If you don't get Pyrrha to stop acting like a brat I might actually kill her."

"Do you know why she's acting like this?" Altaïr asked.

"She's too sensitive," he shrugged, turning towards the many books and then cursed. "Goddamit! She got it out of order again!" Then after a deep sigh he continued on with his explanation. "Anyway, she makes a shitty killer because of that sensitivity. She actually _cares_ about the life she ended. Ha."

"How do you know this?"

"You don't think I listen to you two's conversations?" he said snidely. "Be realistic, Altaïr."

So they talked about it when he was drunk, half asleep, or both. Damn. He wished he remembered to get a better idea of what's wrong with her. He wanted to get her back on track. He may not agree with her on everything, but he preferred the normal version of her compared to her behavior right now.

"Or maybe it's because she's doing men's work and her fra…."

Malik's voice trailed off as Altaïr left without a word.

He entered the back room where Pyrrha was. And the young woman was, as usual, buried in that book she bumped him with. Now, from what he's heard — after all he's been apart of a brotherhood without a single woman involved — that when women, whether they be a wife, sister, or daughter, they'd have their sense beaten into them. But not her. He had no doubt in his mind many Templars had beaten her under their 'care'; the copious bruises and malnourishment were evidence enough when he first met her. She wasn't submissive whatsoever. Beating her wouldn't do her any good. He was pretty sure it wouldn't affect her in the slightest.

"Don't you know to knock when entering a room? I could be… _indecent_ ," she said without looking up. "You're _lucky_ I don't care about nudity." there was something dark to her tone of voice as if it was a sort of a thinly concealed threat.

It just hit him home how little he'd interacted with women in general. There had been only one that he really got to know and he wasn't exactly perfect in getting along with her, seeing that she was dead and all. Not to mention, they were very different and yet not so different simultaneously. Both were wanted by the Templars for selfish gain, and Altaïr knew very little about their backgrounds. But that was about it.

So how was he going to deal with her?

"Is there a reason you're here? If not, paint me it'll last longer," she said still not looking up from that stupid book. "You'd probably get off on that. Nude pieces are all the rage these days."

"I'm sick of your attitude," he said, flushing from the nature of her comment and hating that he did so. "If you don't stop acting like that I'm going to take you straight to Al Mualim and leave you there."

"Ooh, look at birdman trying to be all intimidating. Now try and mean it this time," she smirked maliciously…. "Oof!"

A hand grasped the collar of her tunic, bringing her to her feet, and causing her to drop the book. She looked up and knew he wasn't amused whatsoever. Big surprise, she wasn't exactly _fantastic_ at the whole 'working with others' thing. What she _was_ best at was pissing people off after all.

"You don't think I'm capable of hurting you, Pyrrha?" he asked lowly. "Or making good on my threats?"

"Nope. Not with this little injury," she said, poking the bandage on his shoulder to prove her point.

"Argh!" he exclaimed in pain, letting her go.

Well, she was right about one thing. He couldn't really do much in his current state. That was rather… _humbling_. Well to be honest, the entire hunt for the nine so far had been ego busting. And normally, he'd most likely draw his sword and threaten to cut off her limbs for her attitude and her aggression, but he just didn't have it in him. Maybe it was the injury or maybe it was the ego bruising from Al Muslim and Malik alike. Or maybe he was just growing as a person finally.

"Look," he began. "I don't want to fight, and I don't understand why killing one stupid guard is bothering you so much. But perhaps training again will take your mind off of it."

She paused. Learn how to kill people easier? Why the hell would she want to do that? She was in the clear as long as she wasn't discovered by Sablé or his men. And seeing as she wanted to get out of dodge as fast as possible she might be spotted. And it didn't help the fact that where she typically lived happened to be near both Europe and the Middle East. If ever there was a Templar that's where they'd be. Perhaps learning how to fight but not kill would be useful.

Not to mention she could tell this was the closest thing to an apology that she'd get from Altaïr. Whatever. She wasn't used to apologies anyway. She wouldn't even know what to say if she heard one.

"Okay," she said, standing once more.

So the two were up on the roof. Altaïr's weapon of choice to teach her with was the crossbow. Many countries and religious institutions still ban it because it doesn't take hardly any skill to use it. All that's required is to aim and press the trigger. Oh and reload. It would be perfect for Pyrrha. She didn't have much of a muscle mass compared to an average Assassin, or years of training under her belt.

"First, you have to—"

"I know what to do," she said confidently. "You just press this little button."

"It's a little bit more complicated than that," he said.

But she seemed to have not listened again because the young woman shot the arrow with a press of a button without letting him further elaborate. He told her to aim for the round knob across from their building, but instead she hit the point at the apex. If his arm wasn't in a sling he'd consider slapping a hand on his forehead in shame or frustration.

"Here," he said.

She stiffened when she felt he come in closer to her from behind. She knew he wasn't going to harm her, but considering all of the pain inflicted upon her it had become a natural response. She hated it. Normally, things didn't affect her; she wouldn't let it touch her and fuck with her psyche, but, much to her chagrin, she wasn't perfect. At anything.

After she reloaded her crossbow she let him grasp her wrist and lift it to where her target was. She tried to keep her breathing as even as possible. There was nothing to fear. She knew why she'd be gun shy, considering what happened with Salim and the tremendous guilt she felt, but this wasn't the same emotion and turmoil she'd been feeling the past few days. No. Her heart didn't beat like this when she felt terrible. It didn't beat out of control and practically try to escape from her chest when guilty.

Not mention it was far too hot outside to be standing this close to one another. Yes, she learned in order to stay alive and not be burned in the direct rays of the sun that you have to wear multiple layers of clothing. The first and sometimes the second layer are completely soaked in sweat and keep the body cool while the other layers kept the wearer from being sun burned. But still! He was a little too close.

"Let go," she heard.

Out of surprise she pressed the button and the arrow fired from her crossbow embedding itself in the knob along the roof of the mosque.

"Yea! I did it!" she exclaimed. When she threw her arms up in elation she nearly hit Altaïr's face. But he put up his good hand to catch her forearm.

"Watch it Pyrrha," he said. "I don't need another injury on your behalf."

"Oh don't be such a baby," she said offhandedly, stepping away from him to create more space. "Come on, give me more arrows. I wanna get good at this."

He barely refrained from sighing in frustration. It still just baffled him that she acted in this manner and spoke so freely. It was as if she wasn't afraid of anything. Not afraid of potential punishment for being a woman and speaking unabashedly. Not afraid of Templars to keep from quipping when faced with its Grand Master. Not afraid of anything. Was it the cruel and unusual punishment she suffered in prison with the Templars that toughened her skin? Or was it something else…?

He didn't know.

And perhaps… things needed to change.

"No," he said.

She looked surprised with those wide, silver eyes as if it was a bloody revelation that he would dare deny her anything.

"Oh come on," she said. "Don't be stingy. Aren't I supposed to be learning this? Or are you just a shitty teacher?"

He narrowed his eyes at her for that comment, but it rolled off him. Offensive words didn't affect him the same way that it used to. The second someone even disagreed with him he escalated it and sometimes threatened (sometimes he made good on it) them as well. But that was past him. Pyrrha's words wouldn't affect him. He refused. He'd remained composed like the Assassin he was.

When there wasn't a reaction from him her frown deepened and then she made a snatch for the arrow. His reflexes were still top notch, injury or not, the young woman didn't stand a chance. But that didn't mean she didn't try.

Pyrrha wasn't amused whatsoever. "Oh come on, give it here," she said. The silver eyed woman swiped for the arrow again. He held it above her head out of her reach. She hated it when people used her short stature against her.

She stood on her tiptoes, holding onto his leather strap across his torso for balance, and trying to shorten the gap between her fingers and that arrow. From the corner of her eye she swore she thought he was smirking in amusement at her struggles to shoot her new crossbow.

Then when he stepped back it all went south. It created a space between them and, with Pyrrha being on her tiptoes, caused her to fall forward. Her face smashed into his chest fairly hard.

"Oof," she grunted painfully when the both of them fell back onto the roof of the bureau.

She opened her eyes and looked down to see the entirety of his face again. He was just as good looking as she remembered. Except this time sweat was rolling down his sun kissed skin. His eyes were still chocolate brown and definitely attractive. Like she noticed before, he hadn't been keeping up with his facial hair and was a little scruffy this time around. It worked for him. But it still didn't cover up that thin, white scar along the side of his lips. It wasn't too much of distraction, though, seeing that she was focusing on the lips as a whole.

Altaïr's lips were pink, contrasting with his mocha skin. They were full and looked surprisingly soft for a man who didn't tend to his looks all that often. It was almost as if she refused to look away from them. Like they had this hypnotizing effect on her.

"Oh boy," she breathed when the realization dawned on her.

"Pyrr—"

He felt her lips press against his, surprising him. Which, honestly, just about everything when it came to her surprised him. The young woman was wildly unpredictable. But he really should've seen this coming. After all, not that long ago he tried to kiss her. Then he vaguely recalled her sleeping next to him; the only indication being that his shirt smelled like her hair. A part of him supposed that she just wouldn't do anything about it. But he was clearly wrong like with most situations and expectations of Pyrrha.

Her lips, by the way, were earnest. It was clear she had prior experience before kissing him, and he wasn't exactly proud of the jealousy he'd felt. But that didn't mean her experience didn't draw him in. As much as he hated to admit it he was reciprocating seeing that thoughts of Adha still swarmed his mind. He didn't like to dwell on it — after all, he wasn't a stranger to misery — but the fact that Adha died and he was powerless to stop it left him scarred. It was as if her death was the final straw that broke the camel's back that kept him from arrogantly lashing out at everyone around him and disregarding all the rules he'd lived by since day one. Kissing Pyrrha felt like an insult to Adha's memory.

But was it?

He wasn't as angry with the world as he had been before and during that change he had spent quite a bit of time with her. Perhaps she contributed to relieving his misery. It certainly wasn't the time he'd spent with Al Mualim or Malik neither of them were exactly sweet. Humbling yes, but it didn't make him feel better. Sure, he wasn't 100% happy right now; his shoulder injury had him frustrated at his inability to do anything for the brotherhood for the time being, but he definitely wasn't miserable. Not to mention the man couldn't deny the attraction he had for Pyrrha. He didn't get jealous over just anyone, or throw himself in front of arrows just for someone who _might_ be useful for the Assassins. But were these feelings strong enough to be considered love?

Altaïr didn't know.

All Altaïr knew was Pyrrha was someone that certainly irritated him, but he still wanted to be around.

She pulled back and smirked at the fact that he attempted to follow her lips before catching himself. Well, it seemed Mr. Stuffy wasn't exactly as rigid as she thought he always was all the time. His cheeks were somewhat flushed, and his lips were a shade redder than before. It just made him look even more alluring in her eyes.

It was an odd experience for her. Sure, she's been physically attracted to other men before, but she'd never really had the opportunity to act upon it further than the occasional smooch. She's read about romance and ways of expressing it. But like most things in life, she found that reading is different than actually experiencing. She didn't think she could do half of the positions she'd read in the Kamasutra. She wasn't flexible enough for that.

Suddenly, the sunlight gleamed off of the metal tip of the arrow and reminded her of what she was doing in the first place. So she grabbed it and stood to her feet with a smile.

"Well, back to flying fatality," she said. "Looks like you need a cold bath first." she snickered.

The poor guy looked a little dumbstruck — well his eyes did that is. Then her last comment finally processed and his face reddened, presumably in embarrassment. It just made her smirk smugly as she set up her latest arrow in the crossbow.

He'd never have stability with this woman that was for sure.


	7. Proximity

**Chapter Seven: Proximity**

"Oof!" Malik exclaimed.

He narrowed his eyes at the young woman who just hip checked him with a smirk on her face. She was _still_ ridiculous. It seemed she knew no boundaries. Normal women, people quite frankly, didn't just knock into others and violate their personal space so casually. Such contact was reserved for husband and wife, and Pyrrha was _not_ his wife. For one, the brotherhood forbade marriage and women. So, of course, Malik and the rest of his brothers weren't exposed to women very often or for long periods of time. Maybe, just maybe this was how women acted. Doubtful though. Very doubtful.

"You know I ought to slap you for that," he said.

"I'd just slap you back," she replied easily. "Only harder."

He looked at her incredulously. Why was he even still surprised by her antics? He was an Assassin; he was supposed to predict patterns from people's behaviors to make for an easier kill, but this woman just didn't stop shocking him.

It slipped past him, for a moment, the fact that she just took another book from his shelf. She had gone through so many during Altaïr's recovery that she rearranged his entire bookshelf. Damn her.

"You messed it all up," he said. "I can never figure out your system!"

"It's the alphabet…, dummy," she said.

The way his face transformed from realization, and then to embarrassment was kind of impressive.

"Ow!" she exclaimed when a book knocked her square in the head.

With that she grabbed said book off the floor and thumped him on the top of the head as pay back. She wasn't a liar. She said she'd just do to him what he did to her in a nutshell.

"Ow!" he shouted back.

He grabbed the book, but she refused to let go. So the two began a tug of war for it. Malik, with years of training under his belt, was physically stronger, so he began to gain some ground. He smirked, but Pyrrha wouldn't let it end like that. So she resorted to slapping his only hand with her free one.

"Ow, Pyrrha!" he exclaimed.

"Let go, you big jerk! I haven't read that one yet!" she shouted back without any malice.

"Enough you two!" someone suddenly said, announcing his presence to the both of them. They looked over and saw an unamused Altaïr. "Do I have to point out how immature the both of you are being?"

"She started—"

"Hush."

With that, he snatched the book away from the both of them and then threw it in the fireplace to be burned by the consuming flames. It should put a stopper on all of it. But that didn't mean they took it well.

"Hey!" the both of them exclaimed and then glared at one another.

"Now, the two of you will finally stop acting like children," he said. " _Or else_." With that he left and went back to the peace and quiet that hopefully won't be interrupted again.

The two were still glaring daggers at one another until Altaïr left. Then they both rushed to the fireplace and managed to fish it out with a poker onto the floor. Pyrrha quickly grabbed the bucket of water Malik gathered earlier that day and poured it on the burning book. When the flames were out and off the hard cover he opened the book quickly and they both let out a sigh of relief.

"None of the pages were burned. Thank God," he said. The two sat in silence by themselves for a moment or two until he spoke up again. His tone suggested he was rather reluctant to get it out. "I'm sorry Pyrrha. I shouldn't have thrown the book in your face."

"And I shouldn't have hit you," she said.

She moved in for a hug in their sitting position, but he put up his only hand to stop her. As a result, she frowned. Why didn't he want a hug? She thought they made up. Not only did she read that that's what people do when forgiving one another, but it was also in the moment. So what was his deal?

"No, no. I don't hug," he said gruffly.

"What? You don't like ladies hugging you?" she questioned. "Are you gay?"

"No!" he said, flushing red.

She began laughing at the reaction. She didn't see what was so wrong with being a homosexual that he had to shout vehemently that he wasn't. Maybe a homosexual snubbed him at a party. Whatever. Either way, him getting huffy over something so trivial made her laugh.

"Men don't hugs, idiot," he supplied. "It's unmanly."

"Wow, being manly sounds like a drag," she said with a shrug, standing up.

As she walked out of the room she swore she heard a bitter "it's not."

…

Later on that day, Altaïr informed her that she had another opportunity to earn her keep. Lovely. He told her that he was going for another assassination contract sent by Mr. Boss Man whom she still didn't know. The only 'name' she got was Al Mualim, meaning The Mentor. Not. A. Real. Name. Sometimes, it would be nice to be informed on what's what. Then on the other hand, she didn't really care unless it affected her personally. Knowing who an old guy was and his motivations were just didn't affect her in the slightest. At least for now that is.

The "Shouldn't you be going?" Malik asked in the midst of writing was rather impatient like he couldn't wait for them to be gone.

"Aren't you going to wish me good luck?" she smiled at him cheekily just to push some buttons.

Malik didn't even look up from his cataloging. Pyrrha frowned, deflating like a popped balloon. Then after a moment, she then headed off with Altaïr. It seemed her and Malik weren't any closer than they were at the beginning of her stay at the base. How disappointing. To her, he was the closest thing she had to a brother or a friend. And she knew she didn't have any siblings, perhaps some half siblings on her father's side she didn't know about, but either way, she didn't know them, so it wasn't a sibling relationship.

When she was gone and out of the base Malik looked up and said, "Good luck."

The two were on horseback. She was still on her palomino she found and stole all the way back when they first met. It seemed both her and the horse adored one another. Well, as much as a horse could adore a human that is. How odd was it that animals found her so charismatic and lovable? It took far longer for a horse to trust him the way that tall, golden mare trusted Pyrrha. Then again she's the one that feeds her, grooms her, pets her muzzle, and trains her. He had never seen anyone work with a horse like that. Typically, one just beat their horse into submission; that's where the term "broke horse" came from. He, on the other hand, didn't care for the whole lovey-dovey thing with animals or anyone really. Maybe that's why his grulla threw her head back and often fidgeted when he rode her as if she hated him on her back. Perhaps fear was the only motivation to keep from throwing him.

"What are you staring at?" she asked. "Did Sunshine step on you earlier or something? You look like you want to cook her up and eat her."

"Sunshine?" he questioned.

"Well, I could've named her Lemon Butt, but I'm not an asshole," she said. "So Sunshine it is."

He wanted to ask her other things, but she nudged Sunshine's sides with her heels forward and cantered off. After a moment, he followed suit.

He would never get used to the way she did things. Call him sheltered, but he assumed nobody acted quite like this. He figured it wasn't a female thing or a Greek thing. He's met other women briefly and other Grecians. It was just a Pyrrha Argyros thing. A Pyrrha Argyros thing after she killed a man. He still noticed a difference after spending time with her, teaching her the crossbow, and getting her mind off her first and only kill. She no longer snapped and kept to herself with all of Malik's books (which she read all at an alarmingly fast rate). It seemed she's reached some sort of catharsis.

He came up beside her on his horse and asked, "Are you still thinking about that guard?"

"No… I refuse to anymore," she said. "Dealt with it, never want to think about it again, so the subject's done. Over. I learned my lesson. I'll never kill again," she said. "I'm not like Sablé; I won't kill."

The rest of the ride was mostly uneventful. Altaïr was mulling over what Pyrrha said. The idea of letting go of the guilt of those transgressions did sound incredibly alleviating. He didn't know if he could just not think back on all the horrible things that have happened to him or he had to done to himself and others. How could she though? Was she inhuman? He'd learned to bury and burden his troubles. Sometimes, it would be too much at times, and he'd lash out like he did at Soloman's Temple. But then he'd regain his composure and keep it in check. But it seemed _she_ didn't bear _any_ burdens. She wasn't innocent.

Pyrrha hopped off her horse and tied her to the post. Then she headed out ahead of Altaïr, leaving him in the dust. She wanted to _explore_. She had never been able to explore a town before. The sights, the smells, the people. There was more than usual and what she was expecting. Sure, the place did look a little wore torn, but she still thought it to be _fascinating_.

"Pyrrha, slow down," he said.

"Ooh! Ooh!" Pyrrha exclaimed. "Is that bread? Can I have some?"

"The right price from your husb—"

"No," Altaïr said, grabbing her wrist to lead her away as she looked back at the delicious bread.

Silver eyes looked over and saw a man and a woman with their arms locked together as they walked down the dirt street. Hmm, her and Altaïr weren't locking arms, and they were a man and a woman. She also saw two women and two men locking arms as they walked along too. What gives?

"Hey, why aren't we locking arms?"

"Because we're not family or married," he said simply.

"Oh," she said simply.

Then she heard crying that didn't sound like an animal or an adult human. She looked over and saw a tiny, bald, red faced human crying its little head off. Was that what she thought it was?

"Aw! Look a baby!"

She slipped from his grasp and headed over to the little thing curiously and who she assumed was the baby's mother. But before she could reach the two, Altaïr yet again rained on her party. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her away again.

"Hey," she said.

"Hush, Pyrrha," Altaïr said.

"Don't tell me to — oh, oh I see," she said in realization.

They came to a stop when King Richard I came marching in. William of Montferrat and all the Templars were on the ground while Richard was on the back of a beautiful clydesdale. After all, no one's head shall be higher than the king's. Apparently. But that didn't stop William of Montferrat from questioning the so called king.

"You've killed three thousand Saracens," King Richard said. "You went against my wishes since they still could've been used as hostages to bargain with the other Saracens for our own men."

"The Saracens wouldn't have held up their end of the bargain!" William tried to reason.

"That's not for you to decide," King Richard argued. "You're lucky that I haven't demoted you and have Sanchez look after Acre instead of you."

She could easily see the anger flash across Montferrat's face briefly before he composed himself again. It seemed this wasn't the first time he's challenged the king's authority on policies. Well, not everyone holds the same opinions as others, and it's just too bad that whom he strongly disagreed with happened to be the king. Oh well. No one challenged a monarch, you know, divine right and all.

And with that King Richard I spurred his draft horse and on he went, leaving his newly conquered land behind with his chosen regent.

"So… on a scale from one to ten, how bad is it under the rule of King Richard?" Pyrrha whispered to the young woman at her side.

"What's a really high number?" Basma asked.

"A thousand," Pyrrha answered.

"Yeah, that's about right."

That definitely sounded right. From what Pyrrha's read, she knew that newly conquered land was treated as a second class status especially during times of war. If the King of England and Wales could actually keep Acre under his rule they probably won't have the same legal rights or representation as the homeland. Which, quite frankly, she figured King Richard wouldn't keep very long. England and Wales were all the way in Europe, they'd have to keep a constant military presence, and war was only profitable for very few (it mostly caused debt and death). It was only a matter of time before Saladin reconquered Acre and the crusaders went home. At least, that was Pyrrha's prediction.

"Hey look on the bright siiiiiiiii—"

She was cut off by a hand grabbing her arm and dragging her away. She looked up and glared daggers at Altaïr as he pulled her along to a more secluded spot. Pyrrha shot an apologetic look at Basma, and for some reason she seemed to have a knowing look on her tan face. Hmm. Perhaps women get dragged around a lot here. Weird.

"Hey, there's no need to be so pushy," Pyrrha said when she pulled herself out of his grasp as they stood near the building.

"Don't talk to strangers," he said. "It's dangerous."

She said, "Did I come out of your vagina?"

His face reddened. "Excuse me?"

"I said, did I come out of your—"

"I heard you the first time," he bristled. "And no."

"Well then, you have zero authority on telling me what to do, Grumpy Pants," she said.

Clearly, the rules of the land were lost on her. He couldn't say for sure that this happened everywhere, but there was this whole policy on how women were to behave and all. Sure, she didn't follow any social rules set by anyone it seemed. She blazed her own trail. He was slowly coming to terms with it much to his chagrin. So he tried to swallow his indignation and move forward. If he relaxed perhaps there'd be less friction between them.

"Can you go up to the roof across from the fort?" he asked.

"I don't want to be anywhere near that fort," she said. "Those archers will shoot me on sight!"

"Not if you hide," he said. "Now come on. Climb up the ladder and be of assistance."

"Only if you say pretty please," she teased, batting her eyes to purposefully be more of a nuisance.

"Pyrrha," he warned.

"Fine," she grumbled. "I hope you appreciate the things I do for you."

She began to climb the ladder, but his voice stopped her again. Silver eyes looked down, vaguely annoyed. What was it this time?

"Kill the guards along the top of the fort," he instructed.

She didn't want to. She wasn't lying about what she said the other night a couple of weeks ago. Never again will she dirty her hands with blood again. She wouldn't ever feel that way again. Ever.

But Altaïr didn't exactly appreciate 'disagreements' even if it clashed with another's morals. She wasn't particularly afraid of him though and she certainly didn't want to deal with his shite either. She could lie. She was… okay at lying as long as she wasn't drunk. And she hadn't been morning drinking. So lying it was.

"Okay," she said falsely.

She climbed up the ladder to enter the roof and watched as he headed on. Silver eyes surveyed hit sneaking into the fort. Good. She could ditch this and ditch the whole operation. After that, she climbed down the ladder and hopped down onto the cobbled ground of Acre with a small grunt. She smiled at the freedom of being alone without restrictions and someone with their political/assassin agenda. Now, the real fun shall begin.

For starters, she walked along the streets. She found one trait common in all of denizens. They looked so hungry and angry simultaneously. She wondered why. Who was starving whom here? That should be obvious. The conquerors were starving the residents. She vaguely remembered Altaïr saying something about that; she just didn't care enough to pay attention.

She honestly didn't know why they were being starved. Cruelty? Selfishness? A method of control? Who knows? She didn't. But what she did know was that it made her curious. She had always been starved for knowledge; that was an absolute probably the second she was conceived. She wanted to know. She wanted to understand as always.

"Ow!" she suddenly heard a female voice wail. "Please! I need that loaf of bread! My daughter is starving."

Pyrrha turned and saw a young woman, perhaps slightly older than her, but then again being a parent could make someone grow up fast. Especially when said child was starving. But besides that, the woman was on her knees begging for her child and the man in front of the frail woman was… sickeningly satisfied with himself holding the bread above her.

"No! You've heard what Montferrat said," he sneered. "Everyone forfeits a pound of food every day, you mewling quim!"

The young woman refused to let go of his calf until she got what she needed. But it seemed the man was finished with her, done arguing. The back of his hand was about to come down on her face, but suddenly someone grabbed the underside of his forearm stopping him entirely.

"What? Who the hell are you?!" he exclaimed. "Let go!"

Pyrrha looked up at him, not daring to let his arm go yet. He looked as if he was about to pop a blood vessel in his face… which didn't look pleasant. But he wasn't exactly the nicest man. Rules schmules, if someone is deeply hungry you feed them. She knew how starvation felt and could empathize. She suspected this man didn't otherwise he wouldn't be taking people's food.

Out of the corner of her eyes she could see that a crowd was growing and it seemed this wasn't going to calm down naturally. It seemed it would only escalate further. Lovely.

"So is threatening women how you get your rocks off?" she said. "Isn't that kind of fucked up?"

"Wha— UGHFFH!"

She didn't pull any punches… literally. Her fist connected with his gut. Hard. About a month back it wouldn't have hurt, but now after muscle building exercises it was pretty painful. He fell back and she grabbed the bread from his hand, ignoring the crowd's gasp of horror and surprise.

"Jeez, I didn't think you'd go down that hard," she said.

She saw the look of fear in his eyes as he scrambled to his feet. He clutched his stomach, coughing blood before he began to scramble to his feet and run from her. Well. That was like a bucket of cold water to the face; she had no clue that she was that strong. She knew that perhaps she should be terrified that she could such damage, but she was rather satisfied by it. That meant she could keep herself safe. She smiled.

"Voilà trop longtemps que je subis tes cruauté! Tu seras goûter de mon courroux! (For too long I've endured your cruelty! You will taste my wrath!)," she shouted at his retreating form. She took a deep breath and then smiled a big toothy grin at the young woman next to her while scratching the back of her head. It was as if nothing happened. "Ha, learned that from the Templars. Whoever said I was a dumbass can eat their shorts."

Pyrrha turned towards the woman and handed her the loaf of bread. Then she offered the other her hand to help onto her feet. After a moment's hesitation the woman took Pyrrha's hand. And for some reason, up close the stranger didn't look so much like a stranger.

"Basma? Is that you?" she asked.

"Pyrrha?" she questioned. "… You really are a strange woman."

"Oh honey, I've been called wor— mphgh!" she exclaimed.

A hand covered her mouth and the other clasped her wrist, slamming it to her lower back. She was effectively restrained. What the hell? She shook and grunted to try and knock off her attacker, but to no avail there was no point. And suddenly… pain… then darkness.

X

Altaïr was about to sink his hidden blade into the skull of Montferrat and end his life. But he held back to get answers from him. There weren't any guards to stop Altaïr, so he didn't see the rush. Apparently, he and Pyrrha did a good job. Good for her. Something didn't go terribly wrong for once.

"You're that silver eyed woman's lap dog, aren't you?" he asked, swallowing thickly.

"Lap dog?" he seethed.

"If I were you I wouldn't sleep around with that one," he said, chuckling drily much to Altaïr's displeasure. If he was going to die he wanted to make it sting for his killer it seemed. "I'd use her as leverage. Sablé may make big threats, but he wouldn't let an ace in the hole like her get away. He may torture her, remove limbs, and burn her with hot oil, but he wouldn't dare kill her. If I were you I wouldn't risk catching her insanity from that pus— ARGH!"

In a moment of blind rage, Altaïr pierced the other man's skull and brain with his hidden blade. In the back of his mind, he knew he probably shouldn't have done that. The Assassin should've interrogated him further and gotten the full details of why Pyrrha is 'an ace in the hole' for Sablé. But he couldn't help it. It brought such anger to him that someone would say such disgusting things about Pyrrha. Sure she was weird, but she was also harmless. Why bother being such an ass about it?

As much as he hated to admit it, there was something there. He wouldn't admit the L-word in regards to his feelings for her. His feelings _certainly_ didn't run that deep. But there was definite affection there. He couldn't deny that. They've kissed a couple of times, and he would like to do it again much to his dismay.

He stood, brushing Montferrat's eyes closed with his finger tips. He let the anger inside him go with a deep sigh. He shouldn't feel this way. When did his feelings for Pyrrha turn from cold, calculating, and business-like to angered on her behalf? He wouldn't mind, seeing that sometimes he could be a bit of a hot head, but she was affecting his intel with his assassinations. Is this what being in the proximity of someone will do to you? Intensify every emotion you have when it comes to them? And even when you're not having fun you still want to be around that person?

He couldn't bring himself to care if that was the case.

He headed on, looking to find her. She should be on the roof or on the ground near the fort. That is, if she didn't screw up, or her chaotic yet calm attitude didn't get her in trouble. He'd bet on both.

"Pyrrha?" he called.

No answer.

He tried again once he was on the ground, but the result was the same. So he went to places he figured she'd frequent: bread stands, libraries, and people. But he came up short. It was beginning to frustrate him. He was a Master Assassin for fuck's sake; she shouldn't be this hard to track down. As far as he knew she wasn't trying to avoid him or escape him… or was she? She'd done it before.

"Excuse me, sir. Did you say the name Pyrrha?" a female voice said.

He turned and noticed she was the woman Pyrrha was talking to when King Richard left the fort. Interesting. Could she have something to do with Pyrrha missing or did she just like Pyrrha quite a bit? There was no telling.

"Yes," he answered.

"Well, your wife—"

"She's not my wife," he said plainly, willing his face not to contort.

"Your sister then," she said. He was about to correct her again, but it wasn't worth it. "She was taken away by guards and hauled into a prison wagon."

He grabbed her arm and pulled her close much to Basma's dismay. He didn't care that she looked scared out of her mind. Time was of the essence. And he had zero patience when it came to Pyrrha's safety. He knew, _he knew_ one of these days her big mouth would get her in trouble. Not everyone found it amusing or tolerable. Why didn't she value her safety or understand the volatile nature of a war torn area? Did she just not care?

"Where. Did. She. Go?" he demanded tightly.

"I can show you the way," she said, cowering from the hooded man's angered gaze. "Please don't hurt me."

 **Author's Note: Welp, it's always something.**


	8. Apathetic Inhibitions

**Chapter Eight: Apathetic Inhibitions**

"Get your hands off me, you— UGH!" she grunted in pain when she was thrown behind bars.

She fell hard against the floor and was faintly surprised that she hadn't broken skin. What was it made of? Limestone? Probably. Either way, it hurt like a bitch.

Then she heard the gate shut and rolled her eyes slowly. Well, it seemed it was time for Altaïr to repay her for saving him from drowning. She hoped he'd do it. If chivalry or honor existed in knights and assassins alike (they were both cultish in their rules/indoctrinations after all) then perhaps he'd show up. If he actually cared he'd show up. She had no clue if he cared for her in the slightest. Pyrrha never had experience in the whole 'love' department. For all she knew, the guy threw himself in front of the arrow for some information on the Templars and now figured she wasn't worth the trouble after that experience.

The young woman sat up, and rubbed her head and her skinned up elbows. When her eyes peered up she noticed that she wasn't alone whatsoever. No, she was behind bars with several other women. Oh.

"Hello," she said with a small wave, accidently flicking dead skin their way. Oops.

A good number of them were actually kind of pretty. She was expecting battle scars and asymmetrical faces from improper healing. They were also thin, lacking in muscles, and totally not what she expected of someone in a prison for people who assault guards. Odd. Oh well, no sweat off her back.

"Pyrrha?" she heard a female voice question.

She looked over and immediately recognized Aisha: the dancer girl from that wretched party. Pyrrha's face immediately lit up at a familiar face.

"Aisha! Is that you?" she asked.

Immediately, the other woman knelt beside her and pulled her up into a tight embrace. Welcoming it, Pyrrha hugged her back.

"It's been so long! What have you been up to?" Aisha asked her.

"Attacking mean guards. What about you?"

Quite honestly, it seemed far more interesting how a dancer ended up arrested? Did they mistake her dancing for seduction and arrest her for prostitution? Pyrrha hoped not.

"Oh, some idiot attacked the harbor we were on, so our manager, the girls, and me were blamed for it. Rotten luck, huh?"

Pyrrha laughed uncomfortably, knowing exactly who was to blame for that incident. "Well, at least they didn't take your hands in penance," she said easily.

X

"If she isn't your wife or sister… why do you care about rescuing her?" Basma asked, looking over at Altaïr's stony profile.

It didn't make sense to her. Why would he care if she was imprisoned or not? He wasn't a knight; there wasn't that fabled chivalry involved here. For all she knew, the man was a very fit scholar with a variety of weapons.

Did he love her? Perhaps. 'Love' between the opposite sex wasn't really a priority… ever. Status, money, alliances, and breeding were far more important. If the couple happened to love each other while meeting the other criteria than that was a match made in heaven, so to speak. And Basma knew they weren't friends. Men and women couldn't possibly be simple companions. Men and women were kept separate until puberty hit and marriage happened. They had nothing in common.

"I don't have to explain myself to you," he clipped stiffly. "I want to save her. That is all."

"But why?" she pressed further, genuinely curious.

"The better question is why do you care about saving Pyrrha? You do not know her."

That was easy. She helped feed her child. She owed Pyrrha a debt of gratitude and helping a man break her out of prison would certainly make them square. And Basma couldn't really explain it, but there was something about Pyrrha that was… interesting. She was definitely loud, weird, open, yet carefree. But the thing is Pyrrha had something about her that didn't make Basma want to hate her. Perhaps frustrated with more exposure but definitely not hatred.

"She saved my daughter," she said easily.

"Hmm, Pyrrha actually saved someone," he said under his breath. Then he faced Basma and gestured towards Sunshine and with a clear voice he said. "Get on the horse."

"I'm not allowed to ride a horse remember?" she said. "I don't know how."

"Right," he said dully.

He wouldn't admit this allowed, but he'd grown so used to Pyrrha not being normal. He almost expected Basma to just hop on willy-nilly and not care that he'd have to play catch up with her. But no. The silver eyed woman out of his reach was… something else. Of course Basma wouldn't follow suit.

"Hop on my horse," he said. "I do not have time for this."

"Um… okay," she said slowly.

She didn't know how to mount a horse, but it seemed Altaïr wasn't having any of it. He pulled her up and sat her behind him on his horse's rump. The mare didn't appreciate it, but she didn't dismount them either. That was a plus.

"Hold onto me if you think you're going to fall," he said stiffly. "Use your thighs to squeeze and stay on."

"Uh…."

He ignored it, and they were off… to go get Pyrrha.

X

"So… what's up?"

Aisha placed a hand around her mouth and whispered, "We're planning a prison break."

"Ooh! Really!" she said excitedly, ready to get out of here.

"SSSHHH!"

Pyrrha frowned exaggeratedly, leaning back from all the women. Oh. Sorry for her excitement to get out of a cold, dark place where she could be tortured or starved again. But she supposed she should be quiet as to not arouse suspicion. She wanted out.

"Someone is going to need to distract the guards," Aisha said.

"Well, how are we going to do it? The guy is pretty much immune," another girl piped in.

"I don't know," another said.

"I can do it," Pyrrha supplied easily.

The girls looked over curiously and incredulously at the silver eyed woman. What? Is it weird that she wanted to get out of jail so much that she'd pitch in? She didn't think so.

"Are you sure?" Aisha asked. "It's dangerous."

"What can I say?" Pyrrha shrugged. "I love thrills."

"Uh, okay…."

Pyrrha stood without looking at the other girls. It was already settled. She'd distract the guard for whatever reason to get out of jail. She'd do it. She could handle herself. She isn't dead yet after all.

She leaned against the wall as Aisha continued to sharpen her makeshift shank behind a wall of other girls. The silver eyed woman was trying to eavesdrop through the wall to get some information on the guard. If that was to happen she had to know his weaknesses. One can't be successful without understanding.

"I heard one of them tried to sleep with you," one guy chuckled.

"Yeah, something about women being locked up for some time and then finally seeing a real man just makes them want me badly," her target said sounding as arrogant as the words he spoke.

"What? I'm not a real man?"

"Not a good looking one."

"Oh fuck you," her not target said.

She snickered briefly before clamping a hand over her mouth. Quiet or she'll be discovered.

"But it's terrible though. They just look at you like a slab of meat… not a person," her target said. "None of them care about me."

Bingo. She got up and prepared to execute her plan. She knew she'd distract him. He probably shouldn't talk about his lack of success with women in a prison for women. He left himself wide open for some serious manipulation. Dummy.

She went up to the gate and leaned. It wasn't allowed. This would certainly gain his attention.

"Inmate, off the bars," her target gruffed angrily.

"But I just wanted to ask you how your day was going," she said candidly with a dramatic pout.

"What?" he asked, taken aback.

"It must get boring walking back forth with nothing else to do," she said, trying to have a normal conversation.

This was not what he was expecting. She could see it in his face. It was a look often given to her. She was not what people expected most of the time. She was a strange bird. Although, to be quite frank she thought everyone else was a weirdo in her eyes.

"Yes," he said clearing his throat and straightening up. He looked her in the eyes. "It isn't exactly entertaining no. But it pays nicely. Thankfully, I wasn't arranged to marry some girl for my family. The name isn't that impressive, so I guess I couldn't bar…"

He just went on and on, boring her. But she was getting pretty good at sounding like she was totally with the conversation when she wasn't. It was tedious, and it wasn't about a topic she cared for. But she supposed feigning interest for the sake of that key was important. She just wished he'd be more interesting. He was attractive though. He had a pretty mouth worth watching.

"So are you married?" he asked her.

"Huh?" she perked up and then realized what was asked. Why did everyone assume she should be married by now? Whatever. "No, I'm kind of a freak in the streets and the sheets. So no one wants to put a ring on me."

He spluttered in exasperation at her. Oh shit, she screwed it up. Now, he's going to get mad and beat her up for saying such a thing and being on the bars. She closed her eyes in anticipation.

"You're strange but funny," he said.

Well, slap her silly. She wasn't expecting that. Hmm, perhaps there was more to this guard than meets her eyes. Maybe he was the unexpected one. She shouldn't underestimate him perhaps.

"D'aww shucks, Mister, you're gonna make me blush!" she said playfully with a dismissive hand wave.

She saw something in those brown eyes that she couldn't really identify, but she'd seen a few times in Altaïr's. Hmm. What did that me—

"Abu! Get your ass in here!"

Silver eyes widened for a moment and then went back to their normal size. Yelling wasn't new to her.

He looked back towards the source of the voice as if he really didn't want to get his ass in there. Hmm, attached to her already. Nah, don't be ridiculous.

"I have to go," he sighed irritably. "Bye."

When he left a shit eating grin appeared on her face. She skipped in content back to the other ladies. She crouched and let the smile take up a good portion of her face with her eyes closed in elation. Ooh, she knew she had a good way to get out of prison.

"Wow, uh, Pyrrha I've never thought a person's… smile could stretch that far," Aisha said, sounding mildly impressed.

"I stole the guard's key," she said, pulling it out from behind her back.

Silver eyes opened and saw the women's mouths drop in astonishment and their tools clank to the floor. Shocked exhales of air left Adha as Pyrrha's smile just widened at the other woman's shock. Silver eyes loved to watch reactions.

"Well, come on, let's go," she said.

Pyrrha hopped up and headed to the gate at a run. She wanted to get out, and only told Adha and the others because she was so excited about surprising people. It was time to go. Move it or lose it.

She unlocked it as she heard the others scrambling to their feet. She heard "wait up" and "where do we go" several times, but she just ignored it. That is until a hand wrapped around her arm and dragged her back behind a wall.

"Wait, we need to come with a plan of escape. I think tha— Pyrrha!"

She was already way ahead of them, atop the stairs, throwing a random guard down said stairs before she sprinted further through the halls of the prison. She didn't have any intention of stopping. She wanted her crossbow and she wanted out. Escaping, running away were her specialities, right?

She rounded a corner and saw someone holding her crossbow. He looked as if he was about to junk it. She was at a full on running tackle, wanting what was hers back.

"It's illegal. Might as well burn—"

She knocked him to the floor harder than she figured she could. Hmm, it seemed she was running faster than she intended. But it worked. The man's wind was knocked out of him and her crossbow was out of his hand. She scrambled up and towards her crossbow before he could get his bearings straight.

"What. The. Hell," he wheezed.

"Bye-bye," she said, running yet again to find an exit, but now she was armed.

"Pyrrha!" she heard Adha sucking wind from behind. "Wh-wait up!"

"If you can't keep up," she began, "then I'm going to have all the fun~! Ugh!"

Suddenly, she felt an arm grab her around the middle, lifting her bodily into the air. From the inertia, they were spinning. She supposed she'd either gained weight as of late or the guy was a weakling. Maybe both. Regardless, she was spinning around without any control. It was kind of fun… and nauseating. But then she placed her arm against the man's neck to hold herself in place. Now, she could aim and not feel quite as dizzy. So in her dip backwards, she shot an upcoming guard's leg with her crossbow.

"Pyrrha!"

What? Why did everyone always have to shout her name? She wasn't deaf!

Silver eyes looked over and saw that it was Altaïr and a terrified woman she vaguely recognized cowering behind him.

"Altaïr?!" she exclaimed happily with an unfitting smile considering her position.

Then she used momentum to slam the both of them forward, knocking the guard that caught her forward onto the pavement. She got up, leaving both guards groaning in pain.

"Altaï—"

"Get down," he told her.

She crouched and saw him throw knives right into another man's chest, killing him. Her face blossomed in mild surprise not at the fact that an assassin killed someone, but the fact that she was so unaware of her surroundings.

She shrugged it off, and then finished her exclamation: "Altaïr!"

Suddenly, he was completely surrounded by Pyrrha. The young woman had her arms around his neck and considering there was a height difference between them, he'd best grab hold of her before she yanked him down by his neck and choked him. It wasn't a chore after all. Having her near him again, knowing she was alright, was an unexpectedly good feeling for his stunted emotions. He didn't want to feel how he felt about her, but a part of him told him to shut up and just enjoy Pyrrha and her safety.

"Aw, you came for little ol' me?" she teased playfully.

"Don't push it," he said. "I could leave you here still."

"No, you wouldn't," she said confidently.

"Aw," the familiar woman said with a smile.

A knife whizzed past Pyrrha's ear, making her eyes widen and her body stiffen momentarily. Oh right, they were in a scuffle. In a prison break.

"Wanna get out of here?" she said.

"Yes," everyone who wasn't a guard said in unison.

Then she was off, running ahead of the masses throughout out the narrow, brick hallways. She heard feet behind her a moment later, heading for the exit… wherever it may be.

"Pyrrha!" Altaïr called from behind. "Why are these whores following us?"

"H-ah-hey now!" one of the winded dancers sounded offended.

"I think the proper term is 'entertainer'," Pyrrha cackled.

Then suddenly she heard:

"Lock it down, boys!" she heard a head guard shout as he rang the bell in an open room. "We've got a prison break!"

She looked all around as the guards scrambled for their weapons. One of them was trying his hardest to get the gate shut to the outside world.

She pointed her loaded crossbow at his hand and shot it. The man recoiled, screaming and falling backwards whilst clutching his hand. Then the bridge that was starting to be lowered no longer had a man to ease it down. It started falling rapidly. Silver eyes smiled at the challenge, sprinting over to the coiled wire and the lever. Pyrrha snagged a sword left behind in the skirmish and used the momentum of her run to embed it deep enough into wires rapidly moving, stopping in its tracks.

"I'm free, you— UGH!"

A man from behind tackled her to the floor. It knocked the breath out of her. She couldn't see who it was seeing that it was hard to wiggle or move at all. Was it back to the brig or was it her time to die?

"You're not leaving," she heard above her. "I finally found you and you're never going to— UGH!"

Suddenly, she felt the weight leave her back and she could breathe properly again. She took in big gulps of air as she looked over to see what was what. It seemed that Altaïr had swiped what's his nuts that had the key to her cage.

She got up, grabbed her crossbow, and ran out the exit with the other girls. She didn't look back. Out was her goal.

"The carriage, Pyrrha!" Aisha said. "We can't ride horses!"

"Okay!"

She hopped up and sat right in the coach section, grabbing the reins. The dancers hopped into the big carriage meant for transporting mass amounts of prisoners. She was about to smack the reins along the horses attached, but she saw Altaïr rushing towards her with quite a number of guards. It would be kind of bad if she didn't show up with him back at the base. Although, the look on Malik's face would be pretty amusing.

He hopped up beside her and said, "Give me the reins."

"No," she said and smacked them along the horses' backs.

"Pyrrha, I swear—" then the jolt of the horses starting at a hard canter knocked him backwards into the carriage.

She giggled with mirth as they took off. The soldiers were left in the dust, obviously unable to keep up. But from the corner of her eye they soon realized that there were other horses to hop onto. And the wild chase began.

"Whoohoo!" Pyrrha shouted at the top of her lungs.

"Slow down please!" Basma said.

"No, they're catching up!" Aisha exclaimed. "Speed up!"

Pyrrha looked over and Aisha was right. The guards were catching up. They seemed to be heading towards the front of her horses as if to cut her off from going any further. Hmm.

She neck-reined her steeds to take veer over to the left a bit. She watched with a smirk as the guards on that side were smacked hard to the left into the bushes, their horses running away.

"One of them is on the carriage!" one of the girls squealed in fear.

"Get him Altaïr," Pyrrha said with a smirk.

He gave her a look of mild irritation that he had to be the one to take care of the guards on their carriage. But he did it. She smiled when he climbed up on top with his sword drawn.

More guards tried to come onto the scene but to her right this time. Jokes on them, she was taking a right up here. In her sharp turn that almost tipped the whole set up (screams of absolute panic sounded behind her), she sideswiped the guards beside her, completely cutting them off.

"Are you trying to kill us?" Altaïr hissed through the winds.

She saw over her shoulder that he had his sword embedded in the roof of the carriage with his belly flat on the top. He looked pretty perturbed like he almost fell off the carriage in her mad dash to get away. Whoops! He was still here though, so she counted it as a win.

"If you can't take my lovely driving skills you can hop off any time," she teased. "Pussy."

"Pyrrha, I swear I'm going to— Is that a fire?"

She looked forward and, oh yeah, that was indeed fire. It seemed archers from afar on tall buildings were shooting fire filled arrows in front of them. She steered away as quickly as possible. Only the wheels seemed that have gone over and it was too quick for anything to catch.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God please save me," she heard behind her.

It's totally fine; she had this…. She hoped.

They came across a bridge where the underside was completely on fire and the middle was beginning to collapse. Ooh, a challenge! Would they make it? Well, there was only one way to find out.

"Pyrrha."

"Pyrrha!"

"PYRRHA!"

"We're doing this, ladies… and Altaïr!" she exclaimed.

They ran along the bridge, the wood giving away underneath the weight and force of thunderous hooves and several bodies on wheels. Screams and cheers (Pyrrha) were sounding off as the horses, who thankfully wore eyepatches to desensitize them from being scared of their surroundings, jumped the gap between the broken bridge.

"Lean forward everyone!" Pyrrha commanded.

She didn't know why they didn't do that automatically. When you jump you lean forward for momentum purposes and then sit up straight when you land. Did these people not ride horses? Oh wait, they didn't.

She smiled hugely in mid air and didn't stop smiling even through their bumpy landing. Everyone was still screaming, and there was a few cheers from the safety. Pyrrha's head whipped around and smiled victoriously when the guards on horses couldn't follow. She giggled, loving that she won.

"Pyrrha, you are insane," she heard Altaïr tell her.

Like she hadn't heard that one before. Pfft. It was time to go back to the base….

X

She parked them back behind the base. The young woman hopped down and stretched largely, hearing her joints pop, pop, pop. She looked back at the carriage, and everyone was still clearly shaken. What? It wasn't _that_ scary. It was a risky thrill.

"Hmm, what a ride!" she exclaimed happily. "Right you guys?"

"No!"

Well, okay then.

She opened the door and let all of them out. They scrambled to get out and were physically shaken. She loved thrills and wasn't even batting an eye. Weird.

"Sorry that I could not bring Sunshine," Altaïr spoke up.

"Altaïr," she said, looking at him with an amused smirk, "it's sunny pretty much all the time. No need to bring it. This whole place'll set on fire."

"Your horse," he clipped.

"Oh, ohhhh. Whatever," she said with a shrug.

"What?"

She didn't understand the confusion written clearly on his face. Things, animals, people come and go all the time. She didn't see why he gave her a look like that. The world, the environment, and everything changes all the time. Everything's temporary… except time… and death. Time will always march on. Death will always occur so long as there's life. Why bother?

"Come on, let's go," she said nodding her head towards the base.

His face still held that confusion as she headed on. The girls followed her and eventually he did as well.


End file.
